


The Hunter in the Wood

by BeneficialAddiction



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, American Vampire - Freeform, American Vampire references, Animal Companions, Army Rangers, BAMF Clint, BAMF Phil, Bigotry & Prejudice, Bucky Barnes & Clint Barton Friendship, Bucky Barnes & Kate Bishop - Freeform, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Cat, Cats, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Clint Feels, Cuddling & Snuggling, Deaf Clint Barton, Downer's Hollow, Druids, Elements, Ensemble Cast, Er... was a rockstar., Familiars, Ghost Kate, Ghosts, Goats, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton (temp), Kate is a Rockstar!, Kinda, M/M, Mayor Fury, Miss Cleo, Motorcycles, No Spoiler Tags, Phil's house is happy, Platonic Touch, Sheriff Phil, Skinner Sweet references, Small Towns, Smoking, Supernatural Creatures, Touch-Starved, Touching, Vampire Bucky Barnes, Warlock Fury, Warlocks, dirt bikes, druid Phil, farmer Phil, gated community, goodbye kiss, hot tubs, leprechaun Tony, missing Kate, more tags as we go, mountain town, naps, safety zone, siren Pepper, super soldier Steve, the shield - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 08:15:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 74,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7525129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton sees things better than most people, but then, he's not most people is he? Mama was an angel and daddy, well, daddy wasn't. Clint's not exactly sure what that makes him, but with the Anti Inhuman Movement hunting down anyone who's even a little bit different, he's learned how to pass as human. Still, when army-buddy Bucky calls in a favor, Clint is willing to risk his own safety to help. </p><p>Instead he finds himself in Downer's Hollow, a supernatural community where inhumans live in safety knowing they're protected, by the mountain woods around them and the mystical SHIELD maintained by Sheriff and local druid Phil Coulson. Thought to be impenetrable, Clint can see beyond the illusion to the danger lurking in the dark, to the hunter in the wood who threatens the lives of everyone living in the little community, leaving him to find a way to turn a predator to prey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Phil Coulson didn't drink. 

At least not often, not to excess, and certainly never on the job. 

As the Sheriff of Downer's Hollow and sole high druid, he was far too important to the safety of the community and the maintenance of the SHIELD to risk his wits on a bender. He couldn't be faulted if Skye had slipped a heavy shot of vodka or three into his lemonade, if the sweet taste of muddled blackberries and fresh mint had masked the alcohol until he'd gulped down more than half the frosty brew on an empty stomach. 

The way Nick barked a laugh when he scowled at the glass in his hand and peered inside said that he'd likely known, likely even slipped the girl a tip to doctor it up. 

Sighing, put-upon but resigned, Phil rolled his eyes and threw back the rest of it, sweet and tart and cold. It was unseasonably warm in the mountains so early in spring, humid with recent rain, and despite the slick warmth of the alcohol rolling through his belly the drink was refreshing and pleasant on his tongue. 

Morrigan knew he deserved a break. 

"You're too damned uptight, you know that?" Nick rumbled, leaning back in his chair and lifting the massive tankard of house beer he'd been sipping on. "Thought you earth and sun types were into that laid-back shit. Bacchanals, dancing naked in the moonlight..." 

Phil chose not to deign him with a response, merely arched an unimpressed eyebrow in his direction and pushed the glass back from the edge of the table. 

For all his barbs Nick was hardly a traditionalist, as much as he liked to act like one. He dressed in keeping with his status as a warlock as opposed to his status as Mayor, sweeping black leather coat and eye patch, all gruffness and growls, but Phil suspected it was all half done for the pleasure of seeing the shock on new faces whenever they appeared in the Hollow. His abrasive attitude, his bark and his glares and the air of dark magic around him were all largely affected because, as he so quaintly put it, it 'frightened off the idiots.' 

"I thought you called me here on business," Phil grumbled, frowning when Skye bounced up beside him with a tray balanced carefully on her shoulder, placing a fresh glass on the table in front of him. 

"Mayors and Sheriffs drink on the house!" she said brightly, adding a massive basket of loaded fries and a fresh beer for Nick to the table. Pressing a kiss to his cheek, she threw Nick a wink – Mayor Fury to her and everyone else who wasn't Phil – and danced away again. 

"Isn't this all a little celebratory given the circumstances?" he asked, making a sweeping gesture that encompassed the table, the bar, which was full to capacity on a Friday night, nearly half the citizens of the Hollow out for a night of dinner and dancing and harmless flirtation, blissfully unaware that one of their own had gone missing. 

"Still gotta eat," Fury replied, stabbing a fork violently into the basket of french fries. "And since when are you such a pessimist? Thought that was my job." 

"She's been missing for four days Nick." 

"One day," he correctly sharply, casting Phil a glare. "She's been missing for one day Coulson. We haven't confirmed that she never made it down the mountain." 

"And we haven't confirmed that she did. The last time anyone saw her was _four_ days ago." 

"And you know as well as I do that we can't start an official investigation until twenty-four hours have passed. We're already jumping the gun here – she was only supposed to be back last night." 

Phil sighed, dragged a hand through his hair. 

Katherine Bishop had left on Tuesday morning earlier that week to meet with the proprietor of a prestigious art gallery several hours away, to discuss the possibility of a showing and the potential purchase of some of the girl's paintings. Her mother had called Phil's office later that same afternoon in a panic when Kate had failed to check in. The teenager had been allowed to go alone on the condition that she call or text when she reached her destination, as well as just before she left for home on Thursday night. 

She'd done neither. 

Unfortunately, though Phil had been making discrete inquiries since Wednesday, legally he couldn't declare the girl missing until Saturday morning, a full twenty-four hours after she was due back. 

"We'll have to make an announcement," he said, abruptly overwhelmed with the desire, the need to be outside, with stars above his head and earth under his feet. "Something public, official." 

"Rogers is due in my office at ten," Nick nodded, swirling his beer. "Twenty four hours gone, Katherine Bishop's officially a missing person. We're sure she didn't just run away?" 

"You know we are," Phil scowled. "We've spoken with her family, her friends, gone through the house, checked her favorite haunts. She wasn't on particularly good terms with her parents but nothing out of the ordinary for a teenager. She didn't have any reason to run." 

"Like hell she didn't Phil," Fury barked, an unamused laugh. "You know what living up here can do to somebody, especially a kid. Creative type like her, she wanted more. College, a job, the big wide world. Nothing to say she didn't get offered everything she's ever dreamed of by this gallery she went to visit. Could've just decided to stay." 

"I don't think so. She was a good kid – we've never had any issues with her, nothing to say she was restless. She's always respected the rules, the boundaries, the SHIELD. The only reason I even know her is because of her father." 

"Derek Bishop," Nick scoffed. "There's a piece of work. God help him if I find out he had anything to do with this." 

"Now who's being the pessimist?" 

"Shut up and drink motherfucker," Fury rumbled, and Phil felt a grin tick at the corners of his mouth despite the somber conversation. 

The nickname probably sounded harsh – was harsh – but Nick had a mouth like a sailor and he and Phil had been friends long enough for him to recognize the minor note of fondness in the curse. 

Besides, it was better than the other nickname he'd earned. 

"We've got a hell of a job coming to us in the morning," the man continued, staring into the bottom of his draft glass, empty now like the first. "Might as well enjoy the last few hours of peace." 

"By getting drunk? I'm not sure a hangover is going to make tomorrow any easier." 

"You just wanna make sure you look pretty for Rogers," he accused, his one eye glinting, and Phil scowled, flicked a stray french fry in his direction. 

"Press conference for a missing girl hardly sets the mood," he huffed. 

"Christ Coulson, he's sitting right there," Fury growled, jerking his chin at the dark haired blonde sitting three tables away with Tony Stark and Pepper Potts. "Go buy him a drink like a normal person." 

Phil slung an arm over the back of his seat, made the half-turn look as casual as possible as he ran his eyes over the little group. Steven Rogers had come to Downer's Hollow nearly four years ago, staggering under the weight of his new body, generated in a lab by some scientist's serum. Created as a weapon, Steve had been turned into some kind of super soldier but he was a peaceful man at heart, and no amount of muscles in the world were going to change that. Impressive, because the man was built like a brick wall, and yes, ok, Phil was attracted to him. He was an attractive man, but beyond that very nearly all of their interactions had been professional, his position as reporter for the local paper, the main source of news in Downer's Hollow, bringing him and Phil into contact surprisingly frequently. 

Still, outside of those encounters he couldn't say he knew Steve all that well, and maybe that was normal, but Phil had never been the type to initiate a relationship. 

Besides, he was technically on duty, and if that weren't enough to keep him from doing just as Fury suggested, the company Steve kept was. 

Phil actually had a very good relationship with Pepper Potts – she was one of his best friends in the Hollow despite her reputation – but her fiance Tony Stark was a pain in the ass. He didn't hate the man, but they weren't what anyone would call close. 

"He's busy," he said, turning back around to face the table. "Besides, he's got that thing for Barnes going on... Morrigan knows why." 

"Barnes," Fury sneered derisively, this time casting his glare across the room, where the man sat alone at the end of the bar, tucked into a dark, shadowy corner. 

James Buchannan, Barnes to most everyone, had shown up in Downer's Hollow just under a year ago, and was the little community's only resident vampire. The New American type, he was the first Phil had ever met and not quite what he'd expected. Combined with the fact that he clearly had some serious issues – PTSD, a prosthetic arm, and an attitude like a pit viper – he hadn't quite integrated with the rest like he ought to have. Welcome beyond the SHIELD because of what he was, the man was also ostracized for it, distrusted and gossiped about. 

Fair or not, even the supernatural world had its prejudices, and the bloodsuckers always got the short end of it. 

The man didn't seem to mind so much. 

Volatile at best, angry and aggressive on his bad days, the vampire kept to himself, manning the one and only garage within fifty miles and refusing to string more than two words together at a time, but he was one hell of a mechanic and most everyone was willing to tolerate his bloodline once he got their truck or ATV running again. 

Phil had gone to him on a longshot, hoping he'd help put some of his concern to rest. Technically dead himself, Barnes should have been able to sense death around him, even impending death, and Phil had hoped he would be open to taking a job around the outer edges of the SHIELD to see if he could pick anything up, if he could tell him at the very least whether or not Kate had made it down the mountain. 

The vampire had refused. 

In his defense he had seemed reluctant to do so, even upset when Phil explained that he was worried about the Bishop girl, but he'd made himself perfectly clear – he had no intention of doing what Phil had asked. He had almost seemed unnerved by the request and Phil had gotten the sudden, horrible impression that he had triggered the man somehow, which wound up in him making an awkward sort of peace offering by asking if he could bring in his classic '62 Corvette for a tune up. 

Not exactly a car meant for mountain roads, but it was the sentiment of the thing that mattered, and a tentative gesture of trust being offered. 

Anyway, Phil had ended up with a slightly better understanding of Barnes than Nick had - who was still annoyed that the man had refused to help without any explanation - and an appointment at the garage the next morning, only an hour before he was due at Town Hall to meet with Rogers in his capacity as Sheriff. 

"It wasn't spite," he insisted, unsure why he was coming to the vampire's defense. "He was... upset, when I told him. It shook him up Nick – he's not completely heartless." 

"Never said he was," Nick grumbled, popping the last of the french fries into his mouth and clapping the salt from his hands. "Doesn't mean he..." 

Phil never found out. 

It was cliché as hell, but when the door of the bar opened just a few yards off to his left, the place went damn near silent. A blast of cool, damp night air came sweeping in, bringing with it the sweetness of pine and early spring and a slightly scruffy, road-weary blonde that Phil had never seen before. 

A stranger, a man who was obviously, painfully human, and who shouldn't be here. 

Across the table Fury stiffened, his eye narrowing, and Phil could feel half the patrons of the bar go wary, nervous, though most of them hid it well enough. Skye, who had been pointed in Barnes' direction with a fresh beer, lifted her head subtly, sniffed the air, flicked him a nervous glance and then squared her shoulders, heading straight for the newcomer. Phil watched carefully, ready to jump up and intervene, saw Nick shift out of the corner of his eye and new he had his pistol ready under the edges of his coat. 

The man's face brightened as Skye approached, blue eyes shining as a grin changed his entire countenance, the exhaustion falling away as she came to a stop in front of him, one hand on her hip, beer bottle held defensively by her side in the other. 

"Can I help you?" she asked, her own smile pinched at the corners. 

"Wouldn't mind one of those," he replied, nodding at the drink but keeping his tone casual, his body relaxed. 

He looked like he was trying to appear as non-threatening as possible and he was actually doing a fairly good job of it despite the breadth of his shoulders, the bulk of his arms. 

"Just passing through?" Skye asked in response, and the man cocked an eyebrow, clearly confused by the dismissal. 

"Dunno," he replied, and then he grinned mischievously, looked her blatantly up and down before winking flirtatiously. "Scenery's pretty fantastic, might stick around." 

Skye blinked, frowned, opened her mouth once or twice before she finally found her voice. 

"Don't take this the wrong way sweetie," she began, returning the look and lingering on the stretch of cotton t-shirt the man wore beneath a battered leather jacket, "Cause believe me, the view's not so bad from this end either... but I think the best thing for you to do right now is to turn around and head back the way you came." 

Taking a step back, she quirked her mouth in something that approximated an apology and turned away, heading back across the bar. 

Phil watched for any sign of anger, aggression on the part of the man she'd turned down cold – it was actually a pretty good ploy to tell him to get lost. He didn't belong here, and Phil was a little uneasy that the SHIELD hadn't warned him of this man's approach, his entrance into the Hollow, but he looked easy enough. Calm if surprised, both eyebrows headed for the ceiling this time. 

"Ouch," he muttered, just loud enough for Phil to catch as his eyes followed Skye into the corner where she plopped the beer down in front of Barnes, who still had his back turned resolutely toward the door. "Swing and a miss." 

Shifting on his feet, he stuffed his hands down into the pockets of his jeans, cocked his head as he watched Skye trade of a few words with the vampire before stalking off again. Phil sent up a prayer that the man would do as he was told, that the general feeling of discomfort and ill-will given off by the bar patrons and that should be coming from the SHIELD itself would be enough to send him away, but instead he just settled back on his heels and shouted across the bar. 

"Hey Tinman! What's a guy gotta do to get a drink around here? Cause apparently I'm doin' something wrong."


	2. Chapter 2

It's been a long time since Clint Barton has heard from Bucky Barnes. 

Years. 

They'd become good friends during their mutual stint in the United States Army, saved each other's asses a few times, and then when it was over, when the government had fucked them both and left them for dead and almost-dead, they'd walked away together. They kept in touch for a while after that - texts, emails - mostly because it was easier with someone who understood, who knew what it was like. Clint didn't have to explain about his nightmares and Bucky didn't have to feel guilty about the way he lashed out when his missing arm ached with phantom pain. Clint didn't give a damn about what Bucky was, and Bucky didn’t ask about what Clint could do. 

They fit like that, always had. 

Easy. 

In the end though they'd both gone their separate ways, and like anything else did, they grew apart. 

Last he'd heard, Bucky had settled down in some mountain village in the Appalachians, prepared to make an attempt at a 'normal' life while Clint did just the opposite – went back to merc work and travelled the globe making as much trouble for the Anti Inhuman Movement as he possibly could. Money was decent, he had the skill set, and really, it was the principle of the thing. 

Whether Clint counted himself human or not, he wasn't down with that speciest bullshit. 

That had been half the reason he and Bucky got on so well - Clint was the only one in their entire battalion who hadn't given him shit or looked at him cross-wise for being a vamp. 

Horrible, but there it was. 

Him, he figured that until it was _his_ neck the guy was gnawing on, it wasn't anything he needed to be concerned about. 

And yeah, maybe that _had_ happened a few times, but so what? 

What two attractive grown men did behind closed doors was their business and no one else's, thank you very much. 

All he had to say was those other poor bastards didn't know what they were missing. 

Still, he was surprised to find an honest-to-god voicemail from Buck waiting for him when he finally got the hell out of Russia and caught some cell service. Good timing too – he hadn't planned to be back state-side for a few months. Abduction and a week's interrogation had put the kibosh on that – Clint had had every intention of going home and holing up with his brother in Iowa for a while before he played the message back. 

There was nothing urgent, nothing pleading about it, but Bucky was the kind of jerk who would bleed out before he asked someone for help. The simple fact that he had called at all, that he'd asked was enough to jumpstart Clint's ass into gear and get him back home as quickly as possible. 

As soon as the plane touched down he hit one of his bolt holes, packed his shit and loaded his old Kawasaki into the back of the Chevy pickup he'd left there in 96. Both were a little beat up, difficult to start, but the truck and the bike were tough and would handle rugged mountain roads just fine. Unsure of what he was going to be walking into, he also tucked a loaded Ruger into the waistband of his jeans. He still preferred his bow – always had, always would – and had stashed the case and a full quiver behind the seat of the truck, but it never hurt to be prepared. Bucky was like to have a damned armory hidden away somewhere too, though naturally the vamp preferred a more... hands-on approach to things. 

A wrinkled print-out from Google Maps warned him that it would take more than fourteen hours straight driving to get him where he was going, but Clint was capable of staying alert and upright far longer than that. Didn't exactly make for a pleasant trip – the Chevy's suspension was weak at best, the radio crackled with static, and gas station bathrooms left a lot to be desired. By the time he found the base of the right mountain and began his ascent, he was filthy and achey and starving, his bruised ribs and twisted knee protesting violently at the rough treatment they'd been given by the road. 

Whatever Bucky had gotten himself into, he was going to owe Clint for this big time. 

A cheeseburger and a beer at the very least. 

Grumbling and cursing, bitterness and exasperation, they all kept the anxiety at bay, especially when Clint had been unable to reach Buck by phone. He'd tried three times, sent several text messages throughout the drive, but not a single damn one had gone through, and his concern had risen a notch with every failed message he got back. 

Now, as darkness fell and he urged the truck higher, as the barometric pressure rose and the air thinned, Clint felt a weight settled onto his shoulders that was too close to fear for comfort, and the closer he got to the little turn-off Bucky had told him about the stronger and heavier that feeling became. With the windows rolled down he turned his face into the warm spring air, damp and clean, full of pine and rain and loam, rich and earthy. It was pleasant on his skin after the dry, cracking Russian winter he'd weathered, and it eased a bit of the anxiety biting at his nerves, tried to lift his spirits. 

Nice, because something else was trying its damnedest to drive him away. 

It was thick, dark and grey like cloud cover though a fat, sickle moon shone brightly through the trees on either side of the road. It whispered warnings, firm suggestions that he turn around and go back the way he came. It didn't threaten or demand, just hummed strongly against his nerves, promised better things behind him than any he might find in front. 

It was heady, cloying, _tempting_ , but Clint knew magic when he felt it. 

Someone didn't want him here. 

Well, not him specifically – more like anyone. 

It was a wide spell, a sweeping one, pretty impressive actually, and the closer Clint got the more impressed he was. The wards were well hidden, woven into the very fabric of the mountain, and most anyone would miss it, would simply follow the natural flow of it and be guided right back around again. 

Clint's not most anyone. 

He can see the turn of the wind, the twist of the earth as it glitters in the headlights, the way energy gathers, hot and snapping in the ruts and hollows of the trees. He can feel eyes on him in the dark, those of the night creatures hidden in the brush and the metaphoric gaze of protective spells, questioning his presence in their territory, his persistence. 

Then he rounds a curve in the trail and hits the brake so hard the truck whines in protest, brakes creaking. 

Stunned, Clint shifts into park automatically, feels himself get out as though watching from somewhere just left of his own shoulder. He doesn't feel the ache in his hips that comes from sitting too long in the driver's seat, doesn't worry about leaving the keys in the ignition, door hanging open. There's too much awe in him for that. 

He just stares. 

It stands like the Berlin Wall; tall, imposing, proud of itself, and likely just as strong. To the naked eye it's invisible, perfectly clear and undetectable where it grows up out of the earth, entwines itself with the forest it takes its life from. To Clint it's like looking through glass – still clean, still clear, but reflective, glinting, sparking here and there with blue and green and silver where it catches the light of the stars above. 

It's aggressively beautiful, remarkably sleek and effective, and Clint's breath catches in his throat as his heart picks up in his chest. 

"Whoa." 

He says it on a breath, barely a whisper, and that pretty much says it all. Clint's rarely speechless, rarely so thunderstruck by anything. 

This, this is how he felt looking at his first real bow, astonished by the beauty, the glory of something so powerful, so deadly. 

He approached slowly, his hands up, as though to lay his palms flat against the shimmering wall but stops just an inch away, too much respect for this remarkable thing to violate it that way. Even without the contact he can feel it reacting to him, can feel the energy, the magic reaching out to pluck at his aura, curl in and out of the gaps and the scars. He can see it, silver and purple smoke dancing in the dark until it curls around his wrists, wraps around his chest and vanishes, evaporating against his bare skin like it never was. 

It feels like acceptance and Clint can't help but grin. 

He almost regrets leaving it behind. 

Passing through it brings a bit of a chill, like passing under a waterfall, and Clint shrugs into his leather jacket, one hand on the wheel as he guides the truck deeper into the woods. It's heavier here, wilder, the trees closer together, and he can sense running water somewhere off his right, steep cliffs further north. It's rugged, remote, and he can see the appeal, especially for someone like Bucky. It would be easy to hide here, from yourself, from your past, from AIM... 

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. 

Ten minutes from the wall, all rough terrain and a questionably rickety bridge over a deep, rushing creek bed, Clint pulled abruptly onto some kind of little main street, the hub of what Buck had called Downer's Hollow. It wasn't marked on the map he'd printed out, wasn't on any map he'd checked, but it was here and Clint could see it, really see it in the dark, the way little homes and cabins grew out from the center in a tight, neat little spiral, the town delicately arranged down the length of the dirt road. 

As his truck crawled along slowly he passed a tiny post office, a supermarket and a clinic, and it felt almost like he'd been thrown back in time, to some kind of 19th century western just finding its feet. There were streetlamps here and there, golden yellow in the dark, but everything was quiet, empty. He had no idea where to look for Bucky, didn't think he'd have much luck asking for directions, but if experience served there was only one place to find people on a Friday night, especially in a small town. 

Sure enough, at the end of the street a little bar was all noise and bright lights, country music and chatter. There were a few trucks out front but plenty of room for Clint to park near the doors, to jump out and take a better look. 

Hart and Hollow. 

Interesting. 

Standing in the dark, Clint stared up at the building, suddenly uncertain. If the pretty, glowing wall out in the forest were any indication there were people of power here, people who weren't overly fond of visitors. Still unsure of what kind of trouble Bucky was in, he wasn't especially eager to blow his cover or get himself caught up in a bar brawl, and honestly, the vampire wasn't exactly a social creature. Odds were fifty/fifty he'd find the man inside. 

Moving toward the door, Clint nearly jumped out of his skin when a sob echoed somewhere off to his left. 

Spinning on his heel, his hand going back to his hip, he only just checked the instinct to reach for his handgun, eyes searching the dark for the source of the sound, but he didn't have to look far. A teenage girl stood some ten yards away, thin and pale and visibly trembling, tear tracks gleaming on her cheeks as she stared up at the building. Clint didn't understand how he'd missed her the first time, how he hadn't caught sight of her in the headlights as he pulled in but there she was, frightened and hugging herself tightly. 

The misery on her face was like a sucker punch to the kidneys. 

Fucking hurt. 

"Miss?" He called, taking a few steps in her direction. "Miss, are you ok?" 

Startling like she'd been shocked, she whipped around to face him so fast that _he_ felt dizzy. Eyes huge and round in her face, she stared at him so hard he nearly blushed, though he wasn't sure why. There was something about that look that chilled his insides, something else that warmed his skin, because there was something in it so much like want that it burned. She didn't respond, just stared at him with that awful _horror-want_ on her face so he asked again, worry pulsing hot and fast over his nerves. 

"Are you ok?" 

One step back, two, then she turned and bolted, disappearing up the street into the dark and quickly as she'd appeared. 

Clint frowned, stared after her but she was gone, the entire, brief encounter settling uncomfortably in the pit of his belly. 

"Yeah, ok – weird." 

Shaking the feeling, the eerie prickle that ran down his spine, Clint pulled open the door of the bar, stepped inside, and was very nearly bowled over. 

Ho-ly shit. 

He'd never seen so many inhumans in one place in his life, and suddenly the wall out in the woods made a hell of a lot more sense, because it wasn't a wall. 

It was a shield. 

A barrier, protection – guarding over a supernatural community the likes of which he hadn't even know existed. 

Blinking, Clint reeled in his senses, pulled them back, flinching as he was assaulted by too many sensations at once. Half the bar patrons hadn't paid him the slightest attention but all the rest looked ready to jump, to start a deadly dog pile that would be impossible for him to come out on top of. He sensed magic and shifters, saw the illusion of wings and teeth and feral faces, saw eyes seeing him and judging him a human, a stranger, a threat. 

There was a warlock sitting at a table off to his right, big bastard all in black, the tell-tale shift of a pistol beneath his jacket but he didn't move, only watched like everyone else, and Clint couldn't help a smirk. 

Let them look – I Spy was Clint's game and he would win every time. 

Didn't really matter anyway; he'd found what he was looking for, because there in the back corner was Bucky, sitting at the bar in the shadows like the vampire he was, his back turned resolutely to the door and his metal arm glinting where it caught the light. 

He might've just gone straight for him – didn't really have plans to make any trouble – but before he could a pretty, dark-haired waitress came sauntering up to him, all detached, cold pleasantry and professionalism to cover her caution. 

If she thought Clint hadn't seen the way she'd scented the air before heading his way she was wrong. 

Pretty girl, pretty shifter – Labrador unless he'd missed his guess – though not nearly as friendly. 

"Can I help you?" 

Ooo, see? 

Not nice. 

"Wouldn't mind one of those," he said, gesturing toward the beer bottle she was holding like a weapon. 

"Just passing through?" 

O-kay. 

Maybe time to try a different tack. 

"Dunno," he replied with a grin and a wink, laying it on thick. If there was one thing he knew how to do as well as he could shoot a bow, it was flirt. "Scenery's pretty fantastic, might stick around." 

Well that seemed to do it because the girl's posture softened, her eyes looked him up and down with interest and lingered on the breadth of his chest, but then she was slapping him down and telling him to get the hell out of dodge and it was all just ridiculous because really? 

Rude. 

If Clint didn't know what he knew, couldn't see what he saw, if he was just any other guy who'd gotten lost and wandered up here, there was no way in hell that would've worked. 

"Ouch," he muttered sarcastically, watching her stalk away, conveniently enough straight to Bucky's side. "Swing and a miss." 

Probably for the best anyway, sex was distracting, and Clint got the feeling he would need to watch his back in this town. 

"Hey Tinman!" he shouted, an old nickname that Bucky hated but secretly took comfort in. "What's a guy gotta do to get a drink around here? Cause apparently I'm doin' something wrong." 

The place went dead silent.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changed the rating to 'Mature' just to be safe. If you're uncomfortable or unsure there's a note at the bottom, but I think it's fine.
> 
> Also, if you haven't read the 'American Vampire' comic series I highly recommend it. Bucky's specific 'breed' of vampire comes from those - you don't need to have read them to get it but they're really good. As in Stephen King collaborated on the first installment.

Clint could see how it must look from the outside. 

A stranger walks in and insults the most dangerous guy in the place, makes what is, objectively, a pretty nasty remark - and to a vampire of all people. 

Not exactly smart, but then he's never claimed to be. 

Bucky turned sharply on his stool, eyes dark and deep, his face a cool death mask that betrayed nothing of what he felt, and when he pushed to his feet and started stalking across the bar the crowd parted for him like the red sea, getting the ever-loving-fuck out of his way. He looked every inch the soldier he'd always been – ice cold, angry, ready to snap – and Clint could see it, the way people shrank from him, held their breath as they waited for the inevitable bloodshed, like seeing a deadly car wreck coming that you couldn't look away from. 

Clint felt a sharp, wolfish grin curve his mouth and he spread his feet, found a more steady balance, because Bucky was barreling toward him like a man on a mission. He sensed the warlock beside him tense, the man who sat with him start to push to his feet, and he could see what they thought they saw, a murder about to happen in slow motion. 

Hell, when Bucky hit him that's what it felt like. 

He crashed into Clint like a freight train, the full weight of his body knocking into him as Bucky's arms came around him and locked tight, banded around his ribs so hard he felt them creak, threatened to shift the recently healed fractures. He reacted automatically, bit down on the whimper of pain that welled up in his throat and slung his own arms around the other man's waist, returned the hug as a flood of warm, welcome feelings came rushing in on him – familiarity, fondness, relief. 

His friend was here, in front of him, and he was ok. 

Clint felt his shoulders relax and his hand came up to grip the nape of Bucky's neck tightly, a well-known gesture of reassurance, even as the vampire buried his face in the curve of Clint's throat, breathed his scent in deep. He felt the people around them stiffen, saw flares of anxiety and looks of disgust but he ignored them, focused on Buck who, face hidden by the fold of Clint's hood, nipped his neck sharply in reprimand before pulling away and holding him at arm's length. 

"Didn't think you were coming," he accused, his voice low and gravelly and exactly the same as he remembered. 

Clint laughed. 

"Sorry man," he replied, clapping him on the shoulder. "Stuck in Russia for a while - got a little tied up." 

Bucky nodded, and Clint didn't doubt he understood the double meaning, didn't have to ask to know exactly what that meant. 

"You alright?" he asked and Clint grinned, shrugged. 

"Eh, couple'a busted ribs, you know how it goes. Healin' up nice though, so it's... hey!" 

Yelping, Clint took a step back, grabbed at the hem of his shirt where Bucky had jerked it up nearly to his armpits, spreading his metal fingers over the spill of black and blue beneath his skin. 

"Jesus Barnes," he scolded, finally tugging the cotton free of his grip and pulling his shirt back down petulantly. "Buy a boy dinner before you start tryin' to tear his clothes off why don'tcha?" 

Bucky drew back, frowning, tipped his head to the side as he looked Clint up and down, took in his admittedly-ragged appearance. 

"You hungry?" he asked. 

"Yeah, I could eat," Clint answered casually, and then, because of the way he'd said it, the way he was looking at him, turned the question right back around. "You hungry?" 

Bucky didn't answer, and suddenly Clint once again felt the weight of the eyes on them, the entire damned bar watching their interaction, listening. 

"I'm alright." 

"Yeah, well," Clint scoffed, because seriously, fuck all these guys if they judged Buck for what he was, what he needed. "I want a shower, so lead the way _sweetheart_. This town's about as welcoming as a damn desert." 

Bucky rumbled at him, took a playful slap at the back of his head in retaliation for the nickname, the reference to his breed's sire, and Clint saw a few of the people around him flinch but he laughed, ducked the swing easily, stumbling when Bucky shoved him firmly toward the door. As he stepped into the turn, pirouetted with the gentle force of it, he gaze caught on an older man who was watching him with interest, navy suit pants, sleeves rolled up, soft hair and thick, black glasses framing blue eyes. Something familiar sparked in Clint's belly, tickled at his senses, but it was gone as soon as he broke eye contact, all of a second before he was propelled out into the street. 

He couldn't say he didn't feel a sense of profound relief as the door fell shut. 

"Christ Barton, what the hell you driving?" Bucky growled as he crossed the parking lot to the only truck he obviously didn't recognize. 

"What, like I was gonna bring the Challenger up here?" Clint scoffed, fishing the keys out of his pocket. 

The night was a cool, heavy blanket of silence after the violent assault of sensation inside the bar, and he paused a moment to tip his head back and breath it in deep, the air up here cleaner and sweeter than any he could remember in a very long time. Bucky waited patiently, watched in silence, his eyesight nearly as good as Clint's in the dark, letting him have his moment as he leaned against the side of the rusty old truck. 

"Come on," Clint sighed, tossing Buck the keys as exhaustion finally caught up with him in one great, overwhelming wave. "Let's see this garage you were waxing poetic about. Might'a been an excuse to get out of there, but I really wouldn't mind a shower and a sandwich." 

"Think I can rig that," the vampire nodded, and then the only thing was the low cough of the engine and the crunch of gravel under the tires, the cool night air on his face through the open window.

**AVAVA**

"The _hell_ just happened?" Fury barked as the door swung closed, and immediately, as though given permission, the bar burst into confused, excited chatter, a ten minute interaction enough fodder to fuel the gossip mill for weeks.

Phil just stared at the door, stuck on the way his magic had twinged delightedly when his gaze met clear, hazel eyes. 

"Thought Barnes was gonna slaughter that loud-mouthed motherfucker," Nick scowled, picking up his empty draft mug and peering hopefully into the bottom before slamming it back down on the table in disappointment. 

"Don't sound so put-out," Phil replied offhandedly, still distracted. "Last thing we need is another murder on our hands." 

"Keep your damn voice down!" Fury snarled, kicking him sharply under the table, and Phil jumped, realizing what he'd just said. "For all we know the girl's just swanning around enjoying the city life for a few days. Christ Coulson, what's got into you?" 

"Nothing, I just..." he stammered, glancing furtively around the room, but there didn't see to be a person in the place interested in his bitter little remark – they were all to busy speculating about the stranger who'd come in and poked the resident vampire and lived to walk away. "Nothing. Sorry." 

"Oh for fuck's sake Phil, really?" 

Blinking, Phil pulled his gaze away from the door in time to see Nick roll his eye, felt the tips of his ears burn. 

It wasn't his fault that his magic was suddenly bouncing around inside him like a firefly in a jar, trapped, restless. He didn't know what it had recognized in the blonde who'd come waltzing in and out again like a prince, shining, bright, crackling with electricity and mischief, but damn it, it wasn't his fault! Anyone would be distracted by abs like the ones he'd flashed when Barnes nearly ripped his shirt, and if Phil had stared a little too long, checked out his ass as he walked away, well he was just doing his job right? 

He _was_ the Sheriff after all. 

Broken ribs, talk about being 'tied up' in Russia, a handgun at the small of his back... that wasn't just any human. 

Even more concerning than that, he had handled Barnes with fearlessness, with playfulness and teasing and familiarity. There wasn't a man or woman among them who would've dared such a thing, who would've even dared approach the vampire let alone put a hand on him, not even Steve, who just watched with morbid fascination from afar. 

"Didn't know Barnes had it in him," he said with mild wonder, then, when Fury cocked an eyebrow - "A smile." 

"Surly sunovabitch," Nick agreed, getting to his feet and throwing a pair of twenties down on the table, no doubt subtle praise and begrudging respect for the way Skye had attempted to handle the situation. "Probably all an act." 

Resettling his coat on his shoulders, he ignored the way several other bar patrons ducked out of the way of its heavy, sweeping tails, jabbed a stern finger in Phil's direction. 

"You stay focused. And be in my office by 0930 – I'm not waiting for you." 

"Yes sir, Mister Mayor sir," Phil rattled off sarcastically, snapping a salute even as Nick rolled his eye and turned away, flipping him the bird over his shoulder. 

"Fuck you Cheese." 

Phil just groaned, thumping his forehead against the table.

**AVAVA**

Seemed like an hour but it probably wasn't ten minutes before Bucky was pulling up in front of a three bay mechanic's garage, nothing more creative on the front of the building but that - _'GARAGE.'_ Clint snorted, unimpressed, but it was Bucky all over so he didn't say anything, just got out and reached back for his bow. He didn't bother with the bike, didn't bother with his duffel, but there was no way in hell he'd leave his most prized possession out here overnight.

Bucky's eyes lit on the case and he smirked, knew what it was and how much it meant to Clint as he unlocked the small side door and led him through to a little stairwell the led up to the loft above. The scents of gas and motor oil and concrete assailed him, familiar and comforting in their own way, the hulking shadows of cars looming in the dark, but by the time Bucky guided him, tripping and stumbling into his neat little apartment, all that fell away. 

There wasn't much at all left in him at that point. 

All the anxiety, all the panic, the adrenaline push and all those hours in the truck, it was all catching up to him, and suddenly he felt every one of his thirty-six years. 

He stumbled through a shower, luxuriating in the hot water as best he could while half asleep, scrubbing down so roughly he sacrificed a layer of skin to the soap, but it was good, so, so good. Rid of the sweat and stink and stickiness of travel, he got out and toweled off, dragging on a pair of Bucky's black boxer-briefs and not bothering with anything else. He found the vamp in the tiny kitchen, toasting sandwiches in a pan, two of them, thick with slices of pink roast beef and cheddar cheese, crunchy and buttery and perfect, and he ate them standing over the sink because he was sure if he sat down he wouldn't ever get back up again. 

Bucky grumbled at him when he wobbled on his feet, exasperated but fond before taking Clint's elbow in a tight grip and leading him down the hallway to a little bedroom, full up with a king-sized bed. Collapsing face first onto the sheets, he groaned with pleasure before rolling over onto his back and star-fishing out across the mattress. The vampire shucked most of his clothes unselfconsciously and flopped down beside him, close but not touching, eyes closed and breathing even until Clint reached out and grabbed hold of him. Pulling him over until Bucky's body blanketed his own, Clint breathed a sigh of relief as the weight of the vampire anchored him to earth, stopped him from floating off toward the ceiling. 

"Come on," he murmured, lolling his head back against the pillows and pulling Bucky's face into the curve of his throat. "You know you want to. Christ Buck, you look like shit – how long's it been?" 

"A while," the man whispered after a beat, voice hoarse. "No one here..." 

" _I'm_ here," Clint insisted, and he felt Bucky's hand move, cool palm settling over his heart as he carefully measured the rhythm, stroked gently over the bruises painting his side. 

"You sure?" 

"It's just a couple bruises Buck," Clint chuckled quietly, a smile lighting on his lips as his eyes fluttered closed. "You an' me - we've been through worse." 

For a moment Bucky didn't move, then the sheets rustled and Clint felt the man  
slip lower on the bed, silent, hands keeping contact all the way down. 

Clint brought his good knee up with considerable effort – he was nearly too tired to move at this point, weary body and achy bones cradled by the plush give of the bed – but Bucky always went for the femoral artery if he could. Further away from the heart, less risk, less chance of the bite being seen later on... Settling down between his legs, Bucky wrapped an arm around his hip and dragged his nose up to the crease of Clint's groin, breathed him in, nipped experimentally at his inner thigh. 

"Mmm, knew you couldn't resist a taste of all this," he hummed with a grin, eyes closed. 

"Shut up," Bucky muttered, and then he was biting down, the pain clean and bright and sharp like a knife before it dialed down to a dull throb. 

Clint sucked in a deep, ecstatic breath, nerves firing with pleasure-pain as Bucky carefully controlled the bite, used whatever magic he had in him to make it good for his partner. Clint had learned a long time ago that a vampire could make his bite as pleasant or as painful as he wished, and already he was floating on the rush of endorphins the man had sent rolicking through his system. Threading his fingers into Bucky's hair, he tightened his grip, urged him to take everything he needed that he clearly wasn't getting. He trusted Bucky, had almost from the very first, and by the time the vampire had extracted his fangs from of the muscle of Clint's thigh and moved to the waistband of his boxers, he was very nearly asleep, floating again on a haze of the warm-and-fuzzies. 

The long, slow, lazy blowjob that followed wasn't about romance or some kind of rekindled love affair, wasn't about cheap gratitude or even really about sex. He and Bucky shared a different kind of intimacy, one that was based in blood and safety, in that trust that the both of them so seldom found. It was about reassurance, really knowing that both of them were there in that moment, and that they had each other's backs. It was skin on skin contact and unspoken faith, and when the vampire finally pulled off to lap sticky fluids from Clint's abdomen and inner thighs with a rough, cat-like tongue, he was already slipping away into blissful unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna wait but I loved this chapter soooo much!! Let me know if you guys like it ;)
> 
> Ratings change for nonexplicit sexy times, including a bite and a blowjob. Plus, Fury likes to curse.


	4. Chapter 4

Phil debated skipping his appointment at the garage the next morning. Anyone would understand once they realized the task he had ahead of him, but a larger part of him worried that the slight would be taken as an insult. Since the gesture had been a peace offering in the first place he was reluctant to withdraw it, and more than anything he felt like a bit of an ass. While he certainly hadn't treated Barnes with the contempt that some of the other members of Downer's Hollow had, he hadn't been all that welcoming either, keeping his distance and watching the american vampire with a wariness he hadn't done anything to deserve. 

What had happened last night, as surprising and confusing as it had been, only served to show that the man was apparently much more approachable than he liked to seem, though Phil didn't necessarily intend to mimic the behavior of the handsome blonde who'd proved the difference. 

And no – that wasn't the reason he was heading over to Barnes' garage either. 

Even if it was, it was only fair, only right. 

The man had appeared in Downer's Hollow without a murmur, without so much as a whisper from his wards. That was a problem – if he could get through the SHIELD what was to say anyone else couldn't? Phil had spent months, years building up those magics, weaving his protections into the very landscape of the mountain, knitting them together with Fury's darker, heavier spells until the thing had become a nigh-impenetrable force, a barrier between the little town and all who would seek to harm those who lived there. If something had gone wrong, if somehow the SHIELD had broken down or worn thin enough to permit this young man, this human access to their community, that was something that would need to be dealt with, and rather sooner than later. 

So really, it was killing two birds with one stone, wasn't it? 

Three if you counted Lola's much-needed tune up. 

He got the chance to at least attempt an apology to Barnes as well as a casual interrogation of his friend, who didn't have been able to come and really shouldn't stay. 

There's no uniform for Sheriff up here, thank god. Phil can't stand those stripe-legged pants, the flat-brimmed trooper's hats with fat, beaded tassels. As an elected official his duties vary and he's permitted to dress appropriately. Some days that means wearing his sacred druid's robes, some days jeans and heavy hiking boots. Other days, like today, only a suit will do. 

He dresses carefully, puts on his best Hugo Boss, an appropriately somber number in dark grey with slim lapels and sleek lines. He refuses to look like he's going to a funeral, chooses a tie in jewel blue that Pepper says brings out his eyes, and silently goes over the answers he's memorized to the questions he knows he'll be asked. 

_What's being done to locate the missing girl?_

_Why did the Sheriff's department wait until now to start searching for her?_

_Do you expect to find Kate Bishop alive?_

Sometimes he hates his job. 

This kind of work, this kind of stress wasn't what he'd been hoping to find when he moved up here. He'd thought he would just be helping Fury with the wards, contributing a little power, a little energy to the maintenance of the SHIELD. He'd hoped to find a little peace and quiet, a little relaxation, a little time to spend with his goats and in his garden, but as was usually the case when Nick called, he found himself in deeper than he'd planned to be. 

He supposes that's ok, because he is good at this, and at least when it's him he knows Nick is getting the help he needs. After so long, after so many years, this town, these people have become his too. He loves some of them, likes a few more, cares about each and every one. His job, what he does here, it matters, and luckily the good days far outweigh the bad. 

Makes days like this tolerable. 

Good thing too, because more often than not he takes a large portion of his yearly paycheck in trade. Small mountain town like this it's to be expected. They've got reliable electricity, clean running water, remarkably good wifi – nearly all due in part to local genius Tony Stark – but they're still remote. Phil's Christmas bonus comes in the form of more pies than one man can eat, and hardly a week goes by without at least one invitation to Sunday dinner, but since Phil mostly does this job for the people anyway, it works out. 

Still, he's got more than enough money squared away to pay for the full work-up he's hoping to have done on his car, so he tucks the bills into his jacket pocket and heads out to the barn, where Lola lives carefully covered with a snug tarpaulin and well out of reach of any wayward dairy animals. She's a little stubborn on the start, catchy rumble not nearly the smooth purr he's used to after sitting so long and it almost breaks his heart. He wishes he could drive her more often but he hates risking her on mountain roads. It's nice to ride with the top down for a change, however brief the trip from his little cabin to Barnes' garage, the early morning air damp and cool on his face. 

It looks like it's going to rain. 

When he gets there the first bay door is open and empty so he pulls in and parks, impressed as ever with the neatness of the garage. The concrete floor is swept clear, there are no trash or tools cluttering up the place, and the smell is that of good, clean motor oil. Shiny red and silver cabinets full of shallow drawers are set on casters, tucked neatly out of the way, and all the larger equipment is well organized and cared for. Barnes had a reputation for making any engine run like a top, and the facilities reflect his care and proficiency with his craft. 

Phil, who has been unconsciously clutching Lola's keys so tightly that the teeth have bitten into his palm, is set somewhat at ease by all this. 

The effect is rather ruined when Barnes emerges silently from the shadows behind him like the vampire he is. 

He manages not to jump at least, turns fairly smoothly and doesn't give away his surprise with anything more than a blink. On second look it's clear that Barnes has come from the office walled off at the far side of the building, appearing in response to Phil's arrival. Once again he finds himself feeling like a bit of a speciest ass, and in an effort to shake himself out of it, he quickly crosses the floor and offers his hand. 

"Mr. Barnes," he greets, hoping he sounds at least a little bit friendly. 

"Sheriff," the man nods, and well, that's not exactly what he was going for. 

"Phil, please," he corrects, and Barnes pauses, his head tilted to one side and a frown on his face as he looks Phil up and down, ostensibly judging his sincerity. 

"Bucky then," he replies, sounding less than sure himself. "Or... just Barnes." 

"Barnes," Phil agrees with a nod, because that feels less uncomfortably intimate, more appropriate, and the vampire visibly relaxes before gesturing him into the office. 

Well, paperwork evidently isn't his strong suit, certainly not like mechanics is. It's stacked everywhere in sloppy piles, the office a stark contrast to the professional neatness of the garage floor. Still, there's a comfortable chair that's obviously been cleared for him, and the vampire evidently knows his way around the piles, unselfconscious and unhindered by the mess. Taking his own seat, he pulls out a form and begins filling it out quickly and efficiently, allowing Phil the opportunity to look him over. 

He looks ten times better then he did in the bar the night before, than Phil has ever seen him really. There's actually some color in his face instead of the deathly pallor he typically wears, his eyes aren't so dull and sunken. He looks more alert, less detached, less aloof, all in all like an anemia patient who's just had a transfusion, and Phil is suddenly, horribly, rudely nervous, not for himself but for the young man who had disappeared with Barnes the night before. He wants to ask after him but it seems unforgivably taboo, and whoever the stranger was he'd gone with the vampire willingly. 

Pausing halfway down his forms, Barnes raised his head, flicked Phil an unreadable look. 

"1962 Chevy 'Vette right?" he asks, making a note when Phil nods. "Any problems?" 

"She was a little tricky on the start this morning," he explains. "I let her sit too long. Needs an oil change and a tire rotation, general checkup." 

"The works," Barnes nods, scribbling something at the bottom of the page and handing it over, accepting the keys when Phil trades him. 

While Phil scans the summary the vampire twists a paper tag around the key ring, scribbles S. Coulson in block letters. S. Coulson – _Sheriff Coulson_ , which sets the tone and prepares Phil for the fact that there's no price listed at the bottom of the invoice in his hand. 

"I'm perfectly happy to pay you Barnes," he says, reaching out to accept the pen the vampire hands across to him. "Your reputation speaks for itself; I have no doubt I'll be satisfied with your work." 

Barnes makes a scoffing sound, unimpressed. 

"Been here long enough to know how things work," he growls. "Got two in front of you, but it should be done by Tuesday. You want to tip me when you pick it up I won't say no, but I won't be the only man in this damn town to send the Sheriff a bill either." 

"Fair enough," Phil chuckles, signing his name with a flourish and returning the form. 

"All right then. Go say goodbye to her," Barnes says, getting to his feet and jerking his chin toward the door. "I'll get you a copy of this." 

Phil can't help the twitch of a grin – deadpan as the delivery was, that had been awfully close to ribbing from the stoic vampire, so much so that amusement outrode the embarrassment. Still, he took the advice, stepped back out into the garage bay intent on giving the car one last look-over to make sure he hadn't left anything in it he might want before he got her back. 

He got something else to stare at instead. 

Well, at the very least he could rest easy knowing the man was alive and well. 

Very well... 

The blonde from last night had reappeared as startlingly as he'd first come, tugging at Phil's magic and his composure. He was dressed in a pair of low-slung sweats and nothing else, his back turned as he circled the cherry-red Corvette, a broad expanse of hard muscle shifting beneath tanned, golden flesh that made his mouth go dry. Tucking his hands into his pockets he rocked back on his heels, stopped a few yards away to watch even though he knew he shouldn't, but the warm, gentle roll of his energies inside his chest was incredibly pleasant, if surprisingly strong. 

"Lola," the man murmured, a slow, drawn-out purr, and Phil felt a shiver ripple down his spine. "What's a girl like you doin' in a place like this?" 

"She's here for a tune up," he said, finally breaking his silence and alerting the other man to his presence, his voice more stable than he could've hoped for. "I've been neglecting her." 

The man turned toward him smoothly, like he'd know Phil was there the whole time, a wicked little grin on his face, and then it was Phil's turn to get looked over. Swallowing hard, he felt himself blush, found himself focusing on the man's collarbones so he didn't have to meet his gaze, didn't let his own wander over the beautifully defined chest on display. 

"Looking for bite marks?" 

"Excuse me?" he asked, head snapping up in shock. 

"Hickies," the man shrugged, casual, easy, though there had been a challenge in his voice before, an accusation. "Cause me and Bucky aren't..." 

"That's none of my business," Phil interrupted quickly, because dear god, his brain did not need to go there, did not need to be imagining... that. "I'm paid to uphold the law – whatever you and Mr. Barnes did last night is between the two of you." 

The man in front of him laughed, grinned widely and if he was pretty before... _jesus_. 

"So if we dressed up like ninjas and robbed a bank..." he began, eyes twinkling, and Phil sent up a prayer to Morrigan for control. 

"Then the joke's on you," Phil found himself snarking back. "With what passes for a bank up here I can't imagine it was worth your time." 

That earned him another laugh and then the man was stepping forward and reaching out his hand for a shake. 

"Clint Barton," he offered with a grin, but Phil nearly missed it because the spark and lurch that surged between them when their palms met nearly knocked him off his feet. 

Distantly he heard himself suck in a sharp breath, heard the other man, Clint do the same as the world tilted dangerously beneath him, his aura quivering beneath his skin like a gong that had been struck. The blonde tilted his head, looked at Phil like he was only just now really seeing him, a slow, astonished smile spreading over his face, more honest than any of the grins he'd given him so far and all the more beautiful for it. 

"You," he breathed, surprised and awed and Phil wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement but it sounded like a good thing, felt good where there fingers were still clasped together. "You're.." 

"Christ Barton, put some fucking shoes on or get out of my garage," Barnes growled, this time a real growl, all full of sharp teeth as he slunk up on Phil once again. 

If he started making a habit of that, he and Phil were going to have _words_. 

But he supposed it had served as a sufficient interruption – at least he wasn't holding Clint's hand any longer, and that shake had gone on long enough. 

"Sheriff Coulson," Barnes said, handing him a copy of his invoice. 

"Mmm, Sheriff huh? Always did like a man with power." 

Phil went wide-eyed, nearly swallowed his tongue. 

That made two allusions to things this man shouldn't know, and something told him that Barnes hadn't been the one to share. More startling than that, Phil wasn't exactly accustomed to being flirted with like this, especially from someone who... well, someone who looked like Clint. Case in point Steve Rogers, who hadn't spared Phil a glance despite his best efforts. 

Shit, _Rogers_. 

"Gentlemen, you'll have to excuse me," he said abruptly, checking his watch. "I need to get over to town hall – I have a press conference to prepare for." 

"I'll give you a ride," Barnes offered, jerking his head in Clint's direction. "Need to find a time we can all sit down for a talk." 

Phil raised an eyebrow and Clint did the same, frowning at the vampire. 

"This why you called me up here?" he asked suspiciously, and Barnes nodded once, rattled the keys he held in his metal hand. 

"Put some clothes on," he ordered, "Meet us down there. South end of Main Street, the one with the clock tower. Can't miss it." 

"Anything else mother?" the blonde huffed, rolling his eyes. 

"Clean up the fucking cereal you spilled all over my counter." 

Ignoring the bird he was flipped, the vampire turned without another word and headed for the open bay doors where an old Bronco waited, leaving Phil leaping to catch up. He looked back once, couldn't help himself, but he was sort of glad he did because Clint Barton was most definitely staring at his ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think dears :)


	5. Chapter 5

Aw hell, Clint is in so much trouble with this one. 

He likes to flirt, sure, like with the pretty little shifter from the bar, but it's all harmless, all in fun. He's not serious, not fishing, never means anything by it but a little harmless fun. He does it to earn a smile, maybe a kiss, very rarely with the intention of taking someone home. 

This guy, this _Sheriff Coulson_ , he could very well be a different story. 

Clint cleans up the Lucky Charms he'd sprinkled around the kitchen – a jab at the ridiculousness that was Bucky Barnes, a vampire who only ate human food to satisfy his tastebuds, not out of any physical necessity – and rinses his bowl in the sink before heading into the bathroom to scrub his teeth. He's dragged in his old Army rucksack and dumped it out on the guest bed, found clean socks and a t-shirt that doesn't reek. It had been cool and damp in the garage and a glance out the window sees thick, dark clouds rolling in, so he pulls on his favorite purple hoodie before grabbing his leather jacket and his boots. 

The cherry red Corvette purrs at him when he trots back downstairs, heads for his truck. It's a beautiful piece of machinery, gleaming, well-loved, clearly well cared for despite the fact that they're sequestered in a lonely mountain town. She had sung her name quietly in his ears - _Lola_ \- sweet, lovely girl, caught his eye and nearly stolen his heart on first sight with a coy sparkle of chrome. 

Then the man from the bar last night, the quiet, unassuming, handsome man who'd also managed to catch his eye, to stand out from the most colorful crowd he'd seen in some time, had appeared behind him with grin and a quip and just... damn. 

He's pretty, even before Clint shakes his hands. Kind eyes, killer suit, sleek lines that accentuate a body more muscular than many would suspect. He stares, and at first he thinks the guy is looking for a bite mark which pisses him off, but it's a different kind of blush that colors his cheeks when he calls him on it, and Clint's irritation goes as quickly as it came. It wasn't homophobia, wasn't bitter disgust at the thought of Bucky's feeding habits, just... what? Embarrassment? 

Clint had suddenly been intensely aware of his half-dressed state, and never more proud of the body he maintained with strict exercise and rigorous training. He'd been tempted to flex for the guy but had gone for a joke instead and was rewarded with a smile that set off a hot spark of attraction in his belly, prompting him to step forward and introduce himself, make a halfway decent first impression so that the man would be more inclined to continue the relationship. 

Offering his hand, he hadn't been prepared for the fireworks. 

Electricity had burst between them as the world tilted under Clint's feet, all tingling excitement and a rush of excited recognition ten times stronger than what he'd felt the night before. Magic swirled between their joined hands, flowed up Clint's arm to wrap around his chest in a familiar gesture, curl around his neck and his wrists like water. His vision had filled with the glitter and glow of the shield he'd come across in the midnight woods, and with a pleasant jolt Clint had realized that this was the man who'd built it, whose power and energies had woven that wall of power and protection with all the sweat and blood and tears that anything worth doing required. 

For the second time in as many days he'd seen purple and silver smoke dance in front of his eyes, twine together as his own aura accepted and was accepted by the other, by the man, the druid who stood before him. 

"You," he'd murmured with a grin, seeing him, recognizing him for the first time. "You're..." 

He wasn't even sure what he'd been about to say. 

As he unloaded the battered dirt bike from the back of his pick-up, Clint mused on the fact that he'd never seen anything like that before. He's seen... hell, he'd thought he'd seen everything in the years he's been alive, more than any person on the planet. He's seen his own aura before, that purplish smoke that lingers on his breath sometimes like winter frost, but he's never seen it buddy up with anyone else's quite like it had with Sheriff Coulson's. He and Bucky for instance, they hadn't warmed up to each other for weeks after meeting on their black ops team, but the silver that seemed to belong to this man had reached out to Clint even before they circled into each other's presence. 

It was a remarkable thing, a beautiful display just like any other, but he still didn't know what it meant. 

And Bucky, oh that slippery little bastard, he'd had to come and interrupt just when things were getting good, and now whatever secret mission he'd called Clint in on, well _of course_ it had to do with him too. 

He supposed that wasn't exactly fair – he hadn't been called up here to flirt with the locals after all, but still. 

Come on. 

Clint rolls his eyes, makes sure he's ready to leave. His gun is tucked into a holster at the small of his back, tactical pants belted tight. He wants his bow, the comfortable security of it in his hand, but it's a little conspicuous, especially when he's still not sure why he's here. Grumbling under his breath, he makes sure his phone is in his pocket, worthless as it is on the side of a mountain, and tugs on his helmet, kicking the bike to life. 

It starts with a bark and a whine, snarls when he gives it some gas, and a feral grin spreads across his face as he lets go of the brake, guns it so hard he rides a wheelie to the end of the drive. It spits gravel, the engine roars, and damn if it doesn't feel good, a little bit of wicked wild that he hasn't had in a long time. It's still early and he hasn't had any coffee because Barnes was a freak of nature even before he was turned, but there's a sharp, bubbly energy sitting in the pit of his gut that has him laughing as he stands on the pegs of the Kawasaki and speeds up the rough dirt roads. 

There are people out and about, walking down cobbled sidewalks when Clint turns on to Main Street. They stare when he goes blazing past, all speed and color and loud noise, the bike beneath him green and white and trimmed in black. It marks him as a stranger, as unknown but he doesn't care – it's fun and freeing and all the lingering anxiety from yesterday is gone, even if he's headed toward the source of the problem that's called him. 

A part of it is the lingering influence from Bucky's feeding the night before. Clint always feels better the morning after than he expects to – he's pathetically familiar with the side effects of blood loss but he's never achy or logy the way he is when he's been shot or stabbed. Bucky explained it to him once, something about shared blood increasing their connection, strengthening the bond so that the vampire's improved condition reflected on Clint in some kind of feedback loop, but he'd never experienced it with anyone else so Clint suspects that he's just talking out his ass. 

Hell maybe it's just karma cutting him a break. 

He sees the crowd before he spots the clock tower behind them, the building Bucky told him to look for. They're milling around anxiously in front of the steps, a few dozen slowly increasing as the townspeople continue to gather, and Clint can see the simmering dread that collects between them like a fog. He spots Bucky standing off to the side, ever apart from the crowd, sulky son of a bitch, so he goes speeding up and whips the bike to a halt in front of him, slinging the back tire around so the it digs a wide arc in the earth. 

"Hey good lookin!" he grins as he drags the helmet off, scrubs a hand through his hair to tame the way it's gone flat and lopsided. "Need a ride?" 

"Like I'd ride bitch behind you," Bucky scoffs, ruining his attempt at a cheesy pick-up line, the spoilsport. "I've already died once, hoping to avoid a repeat performance." 

Clint laughs, drops the kickstand and swings his leg over the bike, leaning back against the seat. The people standing around are trying to look busy, like they're not listening in, and they're failing miserably. Hell, they might as well be full out staring, which was half the reason Clint had made the entrance he had. Might as well give them a reason to look. Slipping on a pair of sunglasses, he surveys the crowd, knows he looks like an ass on an overcast day, but the specially crafted lenses limit the sensory input, quiet the noise in his head as his brain scrambles to sort everything that he sees. 

"Besides," Bucky says, jerking his chin toward the steps where there's a small podium set up, "For now we're right where we need to be." 

Clint sniffs, takes a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He doesn't smoke, not really, but every once in a while he needs something to occupy his hands, and right now the ritual of tapping one out, of rasping the stone of his lighter and holding the flame to his mouth is soothing, occupies his mind. 

"What is this anyway?" he askes, speaking through the smoke and wordlessly offering Bucky a drag, which he takes with all the casual ease of having done it a dozen times before in moments of stress and pain. 

"Channel six news," he says humorlessly, lifting the cigarette to his lips. "Coming at you live." 

"God bless America," Clint groans, garnering several looks. "You gotta love a small town." 

Bucky scoffs, hands back the smoke. 

"Whatever you say Iowa." 

Minutes pass and they're both silent, ignoring the looks from the citizens around them and passing the cigarette back and forth until suddenly Sheriff Coulson emerges from his place against the wall of the court house on the heels of the Warlock who'd pointed a gun at him the night before, and Clint straightens up against the bike. Bucky snorts, rolls his eyes, but _bitch please_ \- if he thinks Clint has missed the way he watches the hunk of blonde beefcake standing at the bottom of the steps holding a camera, he's an idiot. 

"All right, quiet the hell down," the Warlock barks gruffly, and Clint tips up his glasses to get a better look. He's much the same in the relatively low light of day as he had been in the bar the night before; big, black, swirling with green and grey. Clint suspects if he got closer he'd see _cold_. "We haven't got all day." 

He's got no papers, no notecards, nothing really, and he actually looks out at the crowd when he speaks, meets people's eyes. There is power in this man, as much as there is in the druid who stands quietly in his shadow, but it's darker, harsher, sharper. It's manipulative, crueler, still protective but not as caring, and Clint recognizes his magic as some of the stronger strands woven through the foundation of the shield out in the woods. He's a good choice of leader for a place like this, if only because he'll pull the trigger when he needs to. 

Clint shivers and suddenly realizes just how lucky he was to walk out of the Hart and Hollow on his own power. 

"We're not takin' any questions," the man declares, his single eye glaring and daring anyone to protest. "We're here to do a brief press, and that's all. Rogers'll be taking the full interview this afternoon and he'll have it printed up for y'all tomorrow. Should answer anything we leave out. Now..." 

Stepping back, he looks down briefly, clears his throat, and shit, this guy is good. 

Lifting his head, he grimly surveys the people gathered before him 

"You all know Derek and Eleanor Bishop," he says, voice booming across the crowd as they fall still, concern washing over them and making them small and silent. "You all know their daughter Kate. Miss Bishop left the Hollow on Tuesday morning for the city some hours away and was due back to her parents' house late last night. She did not return." 

A ripple of noise rushes through the gathered citizens, a flurry of fear that seems disproportionate if you didn't know what Clint knows, didn't understand the nature of this gated community. 

"Miss Bishop has not contacted her parents since Tuesday," the Warlock continues, "Nor anyone else that we know of. Sheriff Coulson has been looking into the issue since her mother reported her concerns, but as she has not returned as expected, we are now declaring her a missing person and launching an official investigation. We ask that anyone with any information please come forward or make an anonymous tip on the emergency hotline." 

The ending is abrupt as the Warlock steps back, turns with a flurish of his long leather coat, and the crowd nearly explodes with shouts for _Mayor Fury_. He doesn't flinch, doesn't react at all, just walks away like his people aren't clamoring for his attention. Instead, Sheriff Coulson steps up to the plate – er, podium – and begins to field the questions being batted his way, despite all declarations to the contrary. 

He does well, demonstrates remarkable competence as he answers difficult questions confidently and with sincere feeling. He's clearly the softer side of the law here, just as formidable but not as visibly so. He's the man to go to if you're having problems with the neighborhood kids, or have concerns about the way vegetables disappear from your garden patch once a week, and for a moment Clint is sent spinning back to childhood, to that farm in Iowa that saw his youth pass by. 

He grunts when Bucky nudges his bruised ribs, steel elbow prodding him more sharply than he'd like, but the vampire is looking at him with one eyebrow raised in question so he decides it'd be better just to keep his mouth shut. Sheriff Coulson is attempting to wrap up the conference with a few heartfelt reassurances to the people suddenly buzzing with anxiety around them, and Bucky apparently decides it's as good a time as any to join the crowd, heading straight through the throng toward the steps. People part before them as Clint scurries after, all suspicion and dirty looks, and while it doesn't seem to affect the vampire at all, it kinda pisses Clint off. Sure, he just got here, they don't know him or why their shield has allowed him, one of the few humans present, access to their community, but really, assholes much? 

Going for smug asshole himself, Clint shoots grins and salacious winks left and right as he follows in Bucky's wake, even tosses out a few finger guns. On the whole the tactic seems to work – at least everyone seems startled out of glaring at them. He thinks he even earns a laugh. But then Buck is dragging him through a set of double doors and into a small, neat little lobby, up to a desk where a young brunette was dashing around making a mess of... well, whatever she was doing. 

She nearly jumps out of her skin when turns around and finds them standing there, sending the stack of papers in her hands fluttering to the floor. 

"Mr. Barnes," she squeaks, and Clint feels Bucky stiffen beside him, more offended by people's fear of him than he likes to let on. 

"Miss Lewis," he replies shortly, and Clint ducks to the floor to collect up the scattered papers, mostly so he doesn't see him roll his eyes. "We're here to see Sheriff Coulson, as soon as he's available." 

"Yes, of... of course," she stutters, and Clint pops back up again, ready to interfere before either of the two make bigger fools of themselves. 

Really, it's just embarrassing. 

"Hiya," he grins, wide and non-threatening. "I'm Clint. Sorry about that – didn't mean for this big dummy to scare you." Looking over at Bucky, he tuts at him comically. "Don't be such a bully Bucky, sneaking around like that. Sheesh, at home you stomp around like an elephant." 

Bucky sighs, crosses his arms, used to Clint's ' _See how cute the vampire is?_ ' act. 

Turning back to the girl behind the desk - Miss Lewis was it - Clint reaches out to hand back the papers she'd dropped but pauses halfway through, jerks them back and spins them around for a better look. 

"Aw, Katie," he murmurs, staring down at the glossy photograph of the pale, teary-eyed teenager he'd seen in front of the bar last night. "No." 

Bucky leans in to look, turns to Clint with dark, worried eyes. 

"That's not good."


	6. Chapter 6

It's hard to miss his arrival, what with the way he comes roaring up on a snarling motorbike and laughing loudly enough to draw everyone's attention. 

_Clint Barton._

Phil watches, distracted as he and Barnes pass a cigarette back and forth, recognizes the habit. He's seen it in a hundred soldiers, something, anything to keep your hands busy, anything to focus on besides the stress. Fury notices his inattentive behavior, finds the source of it in the crowd before punching him in the shoulder, barking at him that they have a job to do. It's enough to make him feel ashamed, and after that it's easy to focus on what he needs to do, to smooth out all of the Mayor's rough edges and make as many reassuring platitudes to the people of Downer's Hollow as he can. 

He answers all the questions he was afraid he'd have to and more, does the best he can with the minimal information he has. It takes too long, and by the time he's done, gotten things wrapped up and his friends and neighbors on their way he's left feeling oddly anxious and uncomfortable. It's a feeling that's been building on him since Eleanor Bishop called in a fit, and now, with Kate officially missing and few leads to follow, it's nearly impossible to set aside, even for a moment. 

Nodding for Rogers to follow, he slips back into the building that serves as both town hall and jail for Downer's Hollow; offices on the second floor, three solitary jail cells in the basement. Fury's waiting for them upstairs – he can feel the Warlock's presence like a thundercloud above him and he's not looking forward to this interview. His interest in seeing Rogers, however brief and inappropriate it had been the night before had fled him completely, and _no_ , it had nothing to do with the rather-more-cheerful blonde that's recently introduced himself to Phil's life. 

Well, maybe a little... 

He supposes he should feel like a bit of a dirty old man, trading up like that, but hell, he and Rogers hardly ever spoke – it wasn't like he was cheating. 

He'd do better to feel like an ass anyway, for thinking about either of them when he had other things to focus on. 

Bit difficult really, when the man keeps popping up the way he does. 

Phil enters the building and stops so sharply that Rogers nearly runs him over. He has to blink, more than once to make sure he's not imagining things, but no, there it is, Clint Barton's spectacular, jean-clad ass wagging at him from across the narrow little lobby, and he absolutely does _not_ make a sound, no matter what the look on Darcy's face says. 

Barton's bent over the rickety table that's been shoved against the wall, hugging the decrepit coffee machine that hasn't worked as long as Phil can remember, murmuring to it as the thing chokes and gurgles, and he feels his eyebrows rise as the scent of fresh dark roast hits him hard. Stepping over to Darcy's desk, Phil feels his mouth open but no words come out, and all he can do is jerk his chin in Clint's direction. 

"Is he _cuddling_..." 

"I told him if he could get it to work he could have the whole pot to himself," Darcy whispers, loudly enough for everyone to hear. "He's been _talking_ to it for the last five minutes and it's actually working!" 

This time the eyebrow quirk is more confused than surprised, but a little focus on his magic amplifies his hearing and suddenly Barton's low, gruff voice fills his ears. 

"I know darlin,' believe me," he purrs, stroking the side of the pot, his cheek pressed to the top of the machine. "They ignore you, make fun of you, leave you here to catch dust. 'S just wrong. Pretty little girl, you do just fine, don't you? There you go, that's just perfect." 

Releasing the appliance, Clint straightens up again and pulls the pot from the machine, sloshing with the first hot liquid it's produced in... hell years. 

"You have a serious problem," Barnes rumbles from his seat in the corner, tucked into the shadows against the wall, and damn it, Phil does not yelp! 

"A serious problem and a full pot of coffee," Clint agrees, toasting the vampire. "Thirty-six, twenty-four Barnes." 

"Only if you're keeping track Barton." 

"Anyone ever tell you you're a sore loser?" 

"Gentlemen," Phil says, clearing his throat and drawing their attention for the first time. Unless he was much mistaken, Barton flushed a bit, went a little pink. 

"Um, coffee?" he offered sheepishly, gesturing with the carafe, and Phil's tempted, not in the least because somehow this man has cajoled it out of his recalcitrant coffee maker. 

"No, as I understand, you've won the entire pot Mr. Barton," he declines, "No mean feat, let me assure you." Turning, he gestures Rogers forward, makes an introduction. "This is Steven Rogers; he's our main source of local media coverage here in the Hollow." 

"Clint Barton," he greets, holding out his free hand, and Rogers meets him with the firm, assessing grip of two soldiers taking each other's measure. 

"Steve," the reporter nods, and oh lord, it looks like they're going to be friends. 

"Nice to meet you man. That's Bucky, by the way," he tosses out, cocking his thumb over his shoulder at the vampire who scowls impressively. 

"No I know," Steve says, and oh yeah, Nick's totally losing this one, because there's pink on the tips of Steve's ears as he flicks his gaze in Barnes' direction before dropping it to the floor. "We've... met." 

"Have you _really_ though?" Clint asks, shooting Bucky a smug little smirk. "I'm just sayin,' I've got two bucks in my pocket says..." 

"Sheriff, you said you'd have time to see us?" Barnes inquires smoothly, and there's nothing demanding or authoritative about it but it brings them all back to their purpose. 

"Yes, Rogers and I are about to head up to Fury's office now," Phil nods, straightening his cuffs. "If you and Mr. Barton feel you can contribute in any way..." 

"Actually, might be better if we talk to you first," Barton says, suddenly cautious as he flicks a glance in Barnes' direction. "Without the media. No offense dude." 

"None taken," Steve shrugs, easier than Phil, who suddenly gets the feeling that Barton knows more than he does. 

That's not a feeling he's comfortable with. 

Yes, this man is attractive (see: smokin' hot) and yes, he's been vouched for by a member of their community, but he's still human, still got through the SHEILD, and as shitty as it is, Barnes isn't the best character reference Phil could've chosen. 

He knows things he shouldn't, and Phil doesn't like that. 

His face seems to fall a bit under Phil's gaze, the way he's glaring at him shrewdly now, but that can be neither here nor there at the moment. He has a young girl to find, and while Barnes had told him on the ride over that he intended to 'lend' Phil the use of his friend as recompense for refusing his own help, he hasn't said anything about what exactly Barton can do for them. 

He supposes he'll have to wait to find out. 

"That's fine," Phil agrees, waving a hand vaguely in Darcy's direction. "If you don't mind waiting, I can bring you up as soon as we finish. Shouldn't be more than thirty minutes, and Ms. Lewis can assist you should you need anything. Otherwise, we could schedule something for this afternoon..." 

"We can wait," Barnes replies gruffly, and Clint shrugs, so that's settled. 

"Very good," he determines, giving Barton one last look as he turns away to sit beside his friend. 

Damn if he doesn't look just as good wearing clothes as he does without. 

Phil clears his throat, nods in a sort of farewell, and then he's turning round and leading Rogers up the steps to the start of whatever headway they can make.

**AVAVA**

"You haven't said more than five words to that guy have you?" Clint speculates as he watches Sheriff Coulson jog up a short flight of steps, followed by the reporter in question.

"He stares." 

"So? _I_ stare. He's _interested_ you idiot." 

Beside him Bucky shifts uncomfortably, something very like confusion and a little like hurt crossing his face. 

"He's never..." 

"Yeah, cause you're so approachable," Clint scoffs, lifting the coffee pot and taking a long sip, no mug required. "What with the way you _lurk_." 

"I'm a _vampire_ , I'm _supposed_ to lurk," Bucky argues, and Clint rolls his eyes because yup, there's the man's gold-star excuse, and he hasn't ingested nearly enough coffee yet to have _this_ argument again. 

He spends the next thirty minutes finishing off the rest of his hard-earned caffeine, putting his feet in Bucky's lap every now and again just for the entertainment of having him slap his legs back down to the floor. He's pretty sure he gets it now – Bucky told him he was here to help find the Bishop girl; he just... hadn't planned on it being so soon. 

"She reminded me of you," he says after a while, breaking the silence of the little lobby but keeping his voice low, flicking a dark glance in the receptionist's direction. "She used to come hang around the garage sometimes. Couldn't get rid of her." 

Clint breathed, gave Bucky a long look. 

He could see it; a vivacious, lively teenager trotting around on the heels of a cold, cranky vampire, grinning and asking a hundred questions, unable to be driven off no matter how shortly and sharply he answered back. For whatever reason Bucky Barnes had become Kate Bishop's pet project, and he... he actually cared about her, in his own way. 

"She wasn't scared of me," he intones, low and serious and quiet. "She just laughed at me, whenever I snapped at her you know?" 

A minute passes before he shifts, clears his throat. 

"You would have liked her." 

There's nothing he can say to that – he knows what it costs Bucky to start opening up to people, especially without Clint around to force him to do it, to ease the way. Kate must have been a remarkable girl indeed, not only to beard the dragon in his den so to speak, but to earn his respect as well. He opens his mouth to ask... something, but he's saved the trouble when Rogers and the Sheriff come trotting back down the stairs, speaking quietly as the older man gestures eloquently with his hands. 

Bucky pushes to his feet as they approach and Clint follows, swigs the last of his coffee and sets the carafe back into the machine before stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He looks a little hang dog, he knows that, with his head ducked and his eyes on the floor and maybe it was a little manipulative, but he hadn't liked the way the Sheriff had looked at him just before he'd disappeared upstairs. Suspicious, hard – he probably had a right to – but after the way his aura had so brazenly and delightedly frolicked with his own earlier that morning in the garage... well it had hurt. 

Stupid – he didn't know the man, not really – but there it was. 

Anyway, it didn't matter; the man was too busy thanking the reporter – _Steve_ – to even look in Clint's direction, and when Bucky catches him pouting he slugs him hard enough to knock the look right off his face. 

Clint hisses when the punch jostles his ribs, still bruised and tender, sucks his breath in between clenched teeth and spits it back out as a nasty, vicious threat. Bucky ignores him, ignores the way the other two men turn in their direction, startled and concerned. 

"Are you alright?" Coulson asks, and aw hell, don't be all worried about him now. 

Christ, Clint's gonna get whiplash. 

"Who me?" he wheezes, straightening up a little too fast. "Fine, fine, totally... totally fine. I mean, ought'a be used to this guy beating me up by now right? Big mook doesn't know his own strength." 

"I don't..." Bucky starts indignantly, but then his mouth snaps shut and even though his eyes are watering (fuck, that really had hurt) he's pretty sure he sees his friend blush. 

He didn't know vampires could do that. 

Huh. 

"Right," Steve drawls slowly, glancing between the two of them, then he turns and claps hands with Coulson. "I'll have a draft drawn up by one sir; fax it over for your approval." 

"Right, thank you Rogers," the man nods, all business once more. "I appreciate it." 

"Anything I can do to help," he says solemnly, then he turns and nods to Clint, adding a brief, shy smile in there for Bucky. "Boys." 

Then he turns and he's gone, before Clint can do anything more than think about giving Bucky a kick. 

"Barnes, Barton," Coulson says gruffly, and wow, ok, that's definitely a tone of voice that Clint can get behind. 

"Just Clint." 

The words slip out before he can stop them, before he even knows they're sitting on his tongue. The Sheriff stares for a minute, blinks, his face a calm, unreadable mask, then the corner of his mouth turns up and it's better. 

"Clint then," he agrees, and there's a warmth to it that's also better, less cool, less detached. "The Mayor is waiting for us in his office; if you'll follow me please?" 

He takes them upstairs and down a short hallway to an office situated against the front of the building, tall, wide windows looking out over the street. The warlock, _Fury_ , is standing before them with his hands crossed behind his back, looking down on his exclusive little world, and once again Clint is struck by severity of this man, the harsh, sharp edges. 

When he offers his hand for Clint to shake it's like touching dry ice. 

He doesn't let on but he wonders if Bucky senses his discomfort, sees the way he tucks his hand beneath his jacket and into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie as soon as the man lets go. There's nothing really sinister about him, but he's a hard man, cold, calculating. Clint has no illusions that he wouldn't throw even his closest friend under the bus to serve his purposes. He can see a lifetime of fighting when he looks at him, and his aura has gone a still, matte black that's too constant for comfort. He's met dead men (Hah, vamp joke!) who are more reactive than this guy. 

"Nick Fury," he introduces himself in a loud, thunderous voice. "Mayor. Barnes I know, but who the hell are you?" 

"He's a friend," Bucky answers before Clint can reply, and he recognizes the steel in the vampire's voice. "Old Army buddy." Turning away, he dismisses the glowering Mayor easily, looks to Coulson. "Know you don't know him, don't trust him yet, and I sure as hell don't expect you to trust me, but he can help you." 

Now they both turn their eyes on him (er... _eye_ ) and Clint suddenly feels like a butterfly under glass, fragile and vulnerable and he swallows hard, offering them a wry grin and a stupid little finger wave. Coulson at least looks a little amused, but the warlock just looks pissed, though Clint can't say whether that's his typical expression or not. 

"Want to explain to me exactly how you expect to do that?" he barks. "You don't know anything about the Hollow, or Kate Bishop." 

"I know you're not going to find her alive." 

The room goes dead silent. 

Yeah, probably not the most polite or tactful way to share that little bit of news, but they wouldn't believe him otherwise. 

Sucked – he felt like enough of a dick most of the time, but when he thinks back to that teary-eyed teenager out in front of the bar, when he thinks about what Bucky's told him about her... 

She seems like she was a good kid. 

"I saw her," he says carefully, keeping his eyes on the wall between the two men, both of whom are staring at him with incredulous faces. "Last night, out in front of the bar. You're not going to find her alive." 

The silence settles, and then suddenly the warlock is snorting and bursting into a deep, throaty, disdainful chuckle that has Clint's head snapping up so he can meet the man's amused gaze with a heated one of his own. 

"A _psychic_?" he chortles, shaking his head. "Really Barnes? You, what? Brought me somebody to commune with Kate Bishop's spirit?" 

Clint stares, dumbfounded, then turns to Bucky in shock. 

"Is this guy fucking serious?" he demands. "A vampire, a druid, and a warlock walk into a bar and it's _ghosts_ that make it a joke?"


	7. Chapter 7

He hates this part, he always has. 

He doesn't talk about himself or what he can do all that often, tries his best to avoid it, but when he does, when he has to, no one ever believes him. 

It hurts and he doesn't know why. Stupid really – it's not even that important – but he doesn't like the way they look at him; like he's a liar or an idiot or delusional, or later, when he's proven that he's not, like he's dangerous. 

It doesn't help either that he can't always answer their questions, doesn't know exactly how he works. It's not simple or easy like it is for Buck, who might be a newer, shinier version of a vampire, but who's nature and biology still follows well-known rules. 

Clint's doesn't. 

"What are you?" 

Clint lifts his gaze from the floor, tries not to shift in his chair, tries to tamp down the burn in his cheeks. He hadn't expected Coulson to be the one to ask, hadn't expected the gentle, impressed, awestruck tones in his voice. 

No, he thought it would be the Mayor, Fury, expected an angry, demanding bark from the warlock, and he figured if he looked he'd probably see as much on the man's face, but once he lifted his head he couldn't pull his eyes away from the Sheriff's face. His head was tilted just a bit, his brow furrowed, but his mouth was soft and his eyes bright and curious, not wary. 

It was like being hit in the gut, having all the air driven out of his chest, and Clint felt his blush darken as he dropped his eyes again, looked away. 

"I'm not anything," he mutters, and to the best of his knowledge it's true. "It's not about what I am, just... what I can do." 

For a moment, just a moment, he's six years old again, and he sees his father's fist coming at him, sees the minute tremble in his hands, sees devil-smoke curling around the man's shoulders and demon-light burning in his eyes. To this day he doesn't know what Harold Barton was – if he really was a monster or just a man who lived with one inside him. He's not sure it matters either way. 

Startling when Bucky kicks him in the ankle, Clint blinks and sees both Coulson and Fury waiting for an explanation. Biting back a shiver, he shrugs off the weight of his past and focuses on what's in front of him, not least of all so that he'll be prepared when the pissed off Mayor kicks him the hell out. 

"I can see things," he begins slowly, not meeting anyone's eye. "Better than most people. Auras, sometimes, emotions. Intentions. There's no reason to it, no rules, it..." 

He trails off, because that's really all there is to it. He's not being coy, or deliberately vague; it's all genuine honesty. He is what he is – human, as far as he knows. If daddy was a devil he's almost certain that mama was just the opposite, and really, what does that make him? 

No one trusts a demon, but not many trust angels either. 

"That's one hell of a damned gift Barton," Fury growls, eyeing him up and down, and Clint scoffs bitterly. 

"Gift," he laughs, a cracked broken sound. 

Tell that to a seven year old who still wets the bed because he knows what goes bump in the night, the fifteen year old who's mocked and mistrusted for talking to people who aren't there. Clint's spent his entire life plagued by monsters, and it's made him the man he is – deadly, angry, self-conscious, and hiding it all behind a cocky attitude and a flirtatious smile. He avoids thinking about the life he might've led if things were different. 

"Look, I can help if you want," he says abruptly with a harsh shrug. "I've seen her once, I'll see her again." 

"Her," Coulson says carefully, and Clint can hear a melancholy sorrow creep in on him. "It is her ghost then? Kate's?" 

Clint drops his eyes and this time it's respect, not bashfulness or bitterness. This man cares, personally too, not just because of his job, and that's humbling. 

"Yeah." 

Blowing out a harsh breath, the man scrubs his hand down over his face, closes his eyes. 

"Shit." 

"Alright," the warlock grumbles roughly, far more coldly than his friend, before directing a glare at Clint. "I'm not saying I believe you and I'm not saying I don't, but you keep this shit under your hat, understand? We only just declared her missing this morning; until we find a body I'm not inciting a damned panic." 

Shoving up from his seat behind the desk the man began to pace sharply back and forth, his long leather coat flaring around him with each turn. 

"Derek Bishop's been tight-lipped about all this," he growled. "Now that his daughter is officially missing I have the authority to get a search warrant if he refuses to cooperate, even if I have to base it on suspicion of involvement." 

"You think he really was involved?" Clint asks, and beside him he senses Bucky straighten up in his chair.   
'No," Coulson answers, shaking his head, just as Fury barks out a maybe. For a moment they glare at each other, a silent but heated argument before the warlock scowls and goes back to his pacing. 

"Derek Bishop is a cold-hearted bastard," Coulson acknowledges, "And we're well aware that he's involved in some less-than-savory dealings. Personally, I don't think he cares enough about his daughter to work up the emotion it would take to kill her." 

"Anger isn't the only motive for murder," Clint says quietly. "Get good enough, pull a trigger often enough, the only thing you feel is the recoil." 

A beat of silence passes and he probably shouldn't have said anything, but at the very least he knows that Bucky understands. 

"Anyway, it's not the only reason," he shrugs. "If he's into some shady shit, if Kate found out..." 

Coulson frowns, and Clint wonders why he's arguing this. 

"The man's arrogant," he says finally. "I can't see him being threatened enough by his teenage daughter to have killed her." 

He blinks, and then it's his turn to shrug, strong shoulders inside a well-fit suit jacket. 

"But you may be right. I'm going over this afternoon to take a full statement – if something feels off..." 

Turning to Fury, he cocks an eyebrow, nods in Clint's direction. 

"Can we bring him in as a liaison?" he asks. "Deputize him?" 

"You can do that?" Clint asks with surprise, and Coulson grins. 

"I can do anything, I'm the Chief of Police." 

Clint stares, then snorts, and then both he and Coulson are laughing just a little sadly while the warlock chuckles, Bucky still stoically silent. 

"Aw come on Buck, Jaws is your favorite movie," Clint teases, nudging him with his elbow, but the vamp just shakes his head. 

"We have our own law here," Fury rumbles, coming back to his desk and pulling out a sheet of paper and an honest-to-god fountain pen. "Downer's Hollow makes its decisions as a whole, but Phil and I were both elected to our positions. Most cases, we're trusted with the deciding vote." 

He keeps talking but Clint's not really paying attention. All that political blah, blah, blah... it's never concerned him before. It's been a long time since he's lived within the law – like, seriously, since he was eight – and besides, there was more important information stuck inside that little speech. 

_Phil huh?_

He's watching him, and he might be trying to hide it but Clint can tell he's noticed the scrutiny. The tips of his ears are just the lightest shade of pink and he's staring at Fury determinedly, his eyes flickering just a bit as he refuses to look in Clint's direction. His hands are hidden where he sits on the other side of the desk, but Clint wonders if they're fisted in the fabric of his suit pants, wrinkling the slacks beyond easy repair. It puts a wave of heat in his belly, thinking that maybe he's enough to fluster this man, who, at least on the outside, looks unflappable. 

They notice him staring, all of them, and Bucky rolls his eyes in time with the Mayor, both of them scoffing. They get to their feet and Clint follows suit automatically, shakes hands with the warlock before he can think better of repeating the mistake. It's still just as cold as the first time, nearly painful, though a little bit of dark grey has crept back into the man's aura, making it less flat, less austere, and Clint can tell he still doesn't trust him but at least this time it's not so sharp, not so biting. 

"We'll call you," Fury says. "If Sheriff Coulson feels you can be helpful to the investigation he'll bring you in. Until then..." 

"Yeah yeah," Clint huffs, waving him off. "Keep your mouth shut, be a good boy, I got it. Aye aye Cap'n." 

He's pushing his luck, he knows it, but Coulson, _Phil_ , barks a laugh he clearly wasn't expecting before clamping his mouth shut and looking away out the window along the front of the building, eyes dancing, and it's totally worth it. 

"Motherfucker, get out of my office," Fury demands, but he doesn't turn Clint into a toad on the spot so he counts it as a win. 

Fishing his wallet from his back pocket, Clint draws out a smooth, white business card – his cell number printed neatly on one side and a glossy, purple arrow on the other. No name – anyone who called Hawkeye knew exactly who they were contracting with, what they were buying. Grabbing a pen off the warlock's desk, he scribbles his name underneath the embossed symbols and hands it to Phil with a wink. He's a little disappointed that the their fingers don't meet, that he doesn't get to touch, but until he sorts what all that means, perhaps it's for the best. 

The man blushes and tucks the card into the inner pocket of his suit over his heart, and then Bucky's giving him a rough shove between the shoulders and sending him out into the hallway. 

"I think that went well," he says as they trip back down the stairs. 

"We'll see." 

Bucky pushes open the door of the hall and they step back outside, the sun bright enough to make Clint drop his shades back over his eyes. It's watery and white but there's no real heat to it, the morning still crisp and cool, springtime in the mountains. There's rain coming, tonight or tomorrow morning – he can see it building out over the trees – but for now there's nothing, just clean air, and he stops to breathe it in. 

"So this was it right?" he asks, his eyes closed and his head tipped back. "There wasn't anything else?" 

"Just this. Thought you might be able to... Fuck." 

Clint cracks an eye and watches Bucky stomp down the steps and across the little dirt yard over to his Bronco. Climbing into the driver's seat, he slams the door and punches the steering wheel, hard enough to make the horn blast. Sighing, Clint trudges after him, and when the vamp doesn't immediately start the vehicle and drive off he turns and leans against the truck, his back to the window until Bucky eventually rolls it down. 

"Gimme a fucking smoke," he growls, and Clint hands over what's left of the pack. 

He waits, silent, staring off up the street while Bucky chain smokes half of it, cramming the rest down into the crack of the seat. Shoving his bangs out of his face, a nervous tick he's had for as long as Clint can remember, he scrapes half his hair back into a ratty top-knot, secured with a rubber band. 

"You want to talk about it?" he asks, flat and dull, no emotion, no judgment. 

"No." 

Clint nods, then shoves off the truck and yanks the door open. 

"Right. Come on then, Sir Mopes-a-Lot, get your ass out of there. Really ought'a be careful Buck – you're lucky you haven't started to sparkle already." 

Bucky scowls, uses his boot to push Clint back from the door. He hates references to those stupid teen-romance vampires more than he hates ones about his breed's sire, Skinner Sweet. Makes it fun for Clint, cause he's got comparisons enough for a lifetime's worth of jokes, but he hates seeing the guy like this. For him this is practically grief-stricken sobbing, and he wonders just how much of this is guilt. 

"You know, so far you've kinda sucked at the whole tour guide thing," he says as his friend locks up the truck, shakes out his shoulders under the flak jacket he's wearing. "I mean seriously. So far you took me to see Town Hall, which I'm pretty sure doubles as your jail, and you've introduced me to a grand total of two people, both of whom are law. Not nice Buck." 

"Please," the vamp scoffs, ducking to shoulder-check him and spin him around. "Like you aren't already batting your lashes at the local Sheriff." 

"I bat my lashes at everybody," he laughs as they jog across the street and start wandering up the sidewalk. "I like him though. He's... I don't know, haven't figured it out yet. Come on, tell me about him." 

"Hell no. Like I'm gonna get caught up in that shit again." 

"Please Buck," he singsongs, bouncing at his side and giving him puppy eyes. "Pretty pretty please. Come on... you help me with Coulson and I'll help you with Rogers." 

He'll deny it to his last day, but Clint sees the vampire's footsteps stutter.

**AVAVA**

"You believe him?"

"Yes." 

Fury snorts, rolls his eye at Phil's immediate, unhesitating response before refocusing on Barton and Barnes down on the street below. 

"Why? Because he knows how to bat his baby-blues?" 

"No!" he snaps, but it's too loud, too insistent, defensive in its speed. "No." Calmer this time, better, but still doesn't answer his question. "Just... feels like he's telling the truth. Didn't you get anything off him?" 

"Not much," the warlock admits with a shrug. "Surface shit. Smug little bastard, seems confident enough. Maybe too much." 

Phil bites his lip, nods. He can't disagree – what little he can glean from a person without intentionally targeting them with his magics is very similar to what Nick can get, and his assessment of Clint Barton is, thus far, the same. The rest of it - the smirks and the winks and the flirting, the way his entire being tries to light up with fireworks when he touches the man - that's something else entirely. 

Looking down at the card he'd pulled back out of his pocket, the one he was turning subconsciously between his fingers, he runs his thumb over the metallic, purple arrow stamped into the quality cardstock. 

"I'm going over to the Bishops' place," he says decisively, getting to his feet and straightening his suit. "If Derek won't turn over the number of the gallery owner now I'll give you a call." 

Fury scoffs, jerks his thumb toward his desk. 

"I've got the warrant written already," he rumbles. "You trust too easy Phil – don't write him off just because he's her father." 

"I _haven't_ ," Phil insists, irritation flushing hot, then cold in his veins. "You _know_ I haven't." 

Sighing, he pinches the bridge of his nose before squaring his shoulders and meeting his old friend's gaze. 

"I know you don't like trusting other people," he says firmly, "But at the very least I have to trust myself. I was worried about Kate when her mother called on Tuesday and if there's anything to what Barton says I was right to. I don't think her father is involved, and I don't think the gallery has anything to do with it either. If I had to guess..." 

Looking at the warlock grimly, he spoke his biggest fear aloud. 

"Nick, I don't think she even made it off the mountain." 

"Son of a bitch," Fury muttered, putting his hands on his hips. "Damn it Cheese, if that's what happened..." 

"It means whoever killed her is still in the Hollow."


	8. Chapter 8

Bucky does end up showing him around, kind of. 

Clint doesn't think it really counts. 

For the next few hours they stalked around Main Street with their hands shoved into the pockets of their jackets and their heads down, both of them a little angry, a little sad and sullen. They don't talk much; Bucky points out the tiny gas station and the general store, gruff and short, but they don't go in. There are a few people out and about, one or two that Clint recognizes milling around in front of Hart and Hollow, which apparently doubles as the town's only restaurant, but no one engages them, no one calls out. It's shitty and it sucks and it's nothing like the small-town vibe Clint expected, but then, this isn't just any small town. 

It's a strange combination of light-heartedness and anxiety starting to build up in his chest and that's the only reason he lets Bucky drag him back to the garage. He knows the vamp is still a little off balance from his uncharacteristic display of emotion so he lets him mope for the time being, drops the teasing about Rogers and Coulson and leaves him alone. The fact that he's ignored by his neighbors (at least to his face), the people that should be his friends, likely doesn't help, so when the man disappears into his office and shuts the door behind him, Clint lets it go.

He's got things to think about anyways. 

Like how he kind of likes it here. 

It doesn't make sense, and Clint ends up pacing around Bucky's apartment, wishing he could shoot his bow. He probably could – the woods backed right up to the garage – but something warned him about wandering off into the trees, firing without a backstop. It's odd, strange, an unfamiliar feeling and it unsettles him. 

He's smarter than this. 

He's been here less than twenty four hours, knows like, four people, and doesn't exactly care for the way all the rest treat his friend. 

But... there's something about this place. It's been set up as a safe-haven for inhumans, that part is pretty easy to understand, and it's actually a really nice idea. Clint might consider himself human but for obvious reasons he has absolutely no qualms with someone who's a little more, a little extra. He's spent the better part of his adult life working against the kind of persecution perpetrated by AIM, and the idea of having somewhere protected, somewhere he or anyone else could finally breathe easy... 

It's good. 

But he doesn't trust it yet, not even with the way that shield out in the woods makes him feel. 

Sure, it might have cuddled up to him, tingled and titillated, but Clint's never been an easy lay, thanks very much. 

And the druid, the man that had made it, _Phil Coulson..._

He's a sneaky thing isn't he? 

He makes Clint feel the same way, and it's tempting, oh is it tempting. 

He makes Clint _want_ , and it's not fair, because he's hot and he's electric and he's kind, and all these things that Clint doesn't really know he is but can _feel_ he is in his bones, things he can _see_. 

"Don't be such a fucking _girl_ ," Bucky drawls as Clint falls onto his ratty couch with a huff. 

Rolling his eyes, he lifts his arm, flips him the bird over his shoulder. It's a cute trick, one the vampire loves to pull – appearing out of nowhere like that – but Clint's been friends with him a long time and it's not one he falls for anymore. 

Besides, he can see the man's distorted reflection on the surface of his flat screen tv. 

"You really gonna go there when you just spent a few solid hours pouting in your office?" Clint asked. 

Now it's Bucky's turn to throw up a middle finger, but Clint ignores him. The windows are open, letting in a cool, sweet breeze, and it's quite, the good kind of quiet - birds, crickets, wind through the trees as early dusk starts to creep in. It should be soothing, calming, but it sets his teeth on edge, and there's no way he can stand a night in locked up with Edward Cullen and his pissy attitude. Clint gets it, ok, there's a girl dead and that's... that's the worst part about the whole thing, and apparently she was actually halfway to friends with Buck, but he can't just shut down the way the vampire does. He's too cheerful by nature, too sunny, and while Bucky's particular strain of vampire may actually take sustenance in the sunlight, get stronger by day, he's still very much a creature of the night. 

Like, seriously. 

Literal tween novel vampire depressing. 

"All right, come on jerk," he says, pushing himself to his feet. "Put on your dancin' shoes – we're goin' out." 

"Clint..." 

"Don't _Clint_ me," he warned, already stripping out of his hoodie. "I never did get my beer, and besides, you didn't call me all the way up here to dick around in your guest room." 

"Better not be doing anything in my guest room that involves your dick," Bucky mutters, and Clint barks a laugh. 

"Listen man, you tell me that you _don't_ wanna go down to that bar and watch me make everybody nervous, I'll let you stay home." 

Bucky pauses, tilts his head to the side, then shrugs. 

"Fine." 

Well, that's the spirit. 

Grinning, Clint heads for the guest room to change his shirt with a fresh spring in his step, humming Ke$ha as he goes. 

"Cause the party don't start till I walk in..."

**AVAVA**

Less than twenty minutes later he struts into Hart and Hollow with his swagger on point, drawing every damned eye in the place. He's wearing his best dark jeans and a tight white t-shirt under his leather jacket, and his hair's actually halfway tamed. Bucky's dragged his shit together too, dressed the same except he's gone for the black on black look, walking cliché that he is. He's got his hair scraped up into a sloppy man-bun and there's a bit of a glint to his eyes, demon a little closer to the surface despite being well fed, and if the evening manages to disappoint them both Clint might just haul him back to the garage for conciliatory hand jobs.

Refusing to react to the staring (that's half the fun after all), he turns Bucky away from the corner of the bar he apparently chooses to haunt and sends him staggering toward a seat near the pool tables with a laugh and a good-natured shove. Slinging their jackets over the backs of their chairs (in order to provide a prettier picture for the masses), they both drop into a familiar slouches, legs spread and feet kicked out under the table, a stock photo of ease. 

"This what you wanted?" Bucky asks in Russian, jerking a thumb back over his shoulder to the room at large.  
Clint cocks an eyebrow. 

The guy's not pissed – if he was he would've taken Clint's chair, forced him to sit with his back to the larger part of the bar – but the language jump makes him wonder. 

"Close enough," Clint replies in kind, gaze dancing round the room and its patrons before landing on the waitress hesitantly approaching the table. It's the same girl from the night before, the shifter, and Clint wonders if he'll be refused service a second time. "Still holding out for a burger." 

"I said I'd buy you a beer Barton," Bucky scoffs, back to English now that the waitress has appeared at his side, pad and pen in hand. "I didn't say anything about dinner." 

"Sweetheart, dinner is the least you owe me," Clint purred, but it's the girl he's batting his eyelashes at. "Yeah hi, we'd like two of whatever you've got on tap and a menu please." 

He says it politely, with his most charming smile, but she just stares at him without even a flicker of expression. 

"No menu," she says smartly, and ok, seriously, what'd he do? "And all we serve is local microbrew." 

Bucky sighs, rolls his eyes where she can't see before holding up two fingers. 

"The Top Predator's fine," he says, scowling when Clint snorts at the name. 

"You sure?" she asks skeptically, eyeing Clint in a way that's half suspicious, half interested despite herself. "That's 45% ABV." 

Clint lets out an impressed whistle. 

"Bring it on," he grins. "I'll have a burger and fries, medium rare, and a basket of your hottest wings for this schmuck." 

The shifter's pen hesitates on her notepad and this time she's the one to look surprised, flicking Bucky a glance that says he's failed to mention the fact he actually eats food. 

"I don't..." he begins and Clint glares. 

"Bucky, I swear to god, I will stab you with a fork." 

Objectively it's probably heated, a serious threat, so Clint turns to their waitress with a blinding smile and an explanation. 

"He's a french fry thief," he says conspiratorially, but the girl just blinks, looks between them rapidly and takes a step back. 

"Yeah, I'm just gonna..." 

Trailing off, she gestures vaguely with the order she's written down before turning on her heel and walking back to the bar without another word. Clint smirks and watches her go, but Bucky snorts and rolls his eyes. 

"Why do you do that?" 

"Because if I'm the weird one other people feel less self-conscious," he says honestly, though it's only half the truth. "Also, what the hell? Do I look like a lightweight?" 

As he runs his hands over his own body, trails his fingers across his pectoral muscles and down over his abs, he's acutely aware of the eyes on him, of a certain Sheriff who's parked at a table across the way and steadfastly attempting to ignore him. Attempt being the operative word of course – Clint's got good eyes, and he's seen the furtive, assessing glances, the ones that started as soon as he'd come waltzing in. 

"Anybody ever tell you you're an exhibitionist?" Bucky sniffs, interrupting his train of thought and not bothering with discretion, causing their waitress to go pale and wide eyed as she walks up with two huge tankards of something tinged with pink and sporting a thick, frothy collar. Dropping the glasses with a jerky thump, she darts off again, no doubt to start the rumor mill turning. 

Clint scoffs, lifts the heavy glass and breathes in before taking a long, slow sip. 

"Fuck me, that's good," he moans throatily, putting the glass down and licking the foamy head from his upper lip. 

The beer's strong, nearly half alcohol just like the shifter had warned, and it hits his empty stomach like a kick in the gut, but somehow it's still light on his tongue, with something fruity lingering in his mouth after he swallows. 

"Thor makes damn good alcohol," Bucky concedes, lifting his own pint and taking a long gulp. Lucky bastard processes the stuff better than anyone Clint has ever met – he'll likely be the only one of the two without a hangover come tomorrow morning. 

A few minutes pass and they don't speak, just drink and stare at each other in silence until it cracks down the center when Bucky barks a laugh. 

"Why the fuck are we here Barton?" he asks, leaning back in his chair. For half a second he's care-free, his face open and easy, but then the waitress is back once again bearing a bucket-sized basket of buffalo wings and the biggest burger Clint's ever seen. 

"To socialize, of course," Clint says with a wink as she puts the plates down, leaving a stack of napkins in the center of the table. "You know, that thing people do when they interact with each other." 

Bucky scowls, glares at him as the girl walks away, his good mood abruptly gone.

" 'M a vamp," he growls, his shoulders rising defensively as he crosses his arms over his chest. "You think they want to interact with me?" 

"I said people, not humans," Clint corrects easily, picking up the honest-to-god knife and fork he's been provided with and shoving the wings toward his friend. "Don't be a dick." 

"Fuck off," he mutters, but Clint just smiles, cuts his burger in half so he can actually manage the thing and runs his tongue along the edge of the blade before spinning it between his fingers with a flourish. 

"And with that attitude it's a wonder you don't have people lining up." 

"You're still lined up," Bucky says snidely, sitting up and reaching for a wing. 

"Yeah, but I'm an asshole." 

That earns him a pause and a laugh, a real laugh, and hell it's all he can ask for. He came here for Bucky after all, was willing to do a favor for Coulson because it was a favor for Bucky. After everything the guy had been through – losing his arm, losing his life, losing his girl – he deserved a little happiness, and it's apparent that he's not getting as much of it as Clint had hoped. 

Still, he manages to draw the guy out a little while they eat, gets him talking about his garage and how he can possibly scrounge enough business up here to keep himself afloat. Turns out being on a remote mountainside in a community of like, a hundred and fifty people has its advantages. Might not be a huge population to work with but Buck's the only resource they have, and mountain terrain and wicked weather do not ideal conditions make. All in all he's got a regular and devoted client base, if only by default. 

Besides, it's not like the Winter Soldier retired without having the odd hundred thousand stashed away here and there. 

When it's Clint's turn they switch back to Russian. He tells Buck about his latest escapades in the country itself, how he'd hunted down a rogue branch of the Anti Inhuman Movement and burned their cute little survivalists' bunker to the ground with the help of his new explosive pyrotechnic arrow. He'd also managed to infiltrate one of the main group's science labs, detailing between bites all the information he'd covertly uploaded to the authorities and equal rights groups. By the time he got to the part where he was caught and strung up by the ankles to play punching bag to a few of MODOK's goons, he and Bucky were both a little more into the story than they probably should be. They were eating voraciously, Bucky's teeth a bit sharper than before, both of them leaning forward and talking with sharp words, hard, hot eyes, body language amped up and aggressive, and damn if it didn't feel good. 

It's been a long time since Clint's swapped war stories with a buddy who understands, and if anybody understands bloodlust it's Bucky. 

Unfortunately, as the vampire becomes more animated and more engaged they start to draw more and more attention, and Clint's not sure it's the kind they want. Bucky laughs when Clint tells him how he got away, teases him in English about his circus tricks, and generally breaks out of his still, sullen behavior. He follows Clint's lead and relaxes, rocks in his chair, gestures with his hands, smiles, even lobs a balled up napkin at his head when he makes a smart-mouthed remark. 

The beer definitely hasn't hurt... 

They're bumping fists, complete with bomb movement and sound effects as Clint details his escape and subsequent razing of AIM facilities with a couple of hand grenades when he catches sight of a man on the other side of the bar, brushing off his friends and heading in their direction. He's wearing jeans and a ratty band shirt but the shoes, the Vandyke, and the Rolex scream money, the kind the doesn't belong way out here. He's striding across the floor with a confidence that only comes from having been on top too long, having your ego catered too, and Clint almost laughs but he manages to bite it back. He's followed by a trim strawberry blonde who's clutching at his arm, trying to drag him back, and oh look, he's bringing Roger's along too. 

How convenient. 

Flicking Bucky a glance, he taps his middle finger three times on the table, old comm code. 

_Incoming, on your six._

The vampire scents the air, rocks back in his chair and reaches for his glass, puts his gleaming steel arm on full display as he tips his head back and sucks down the last two inches in one go. Clint rolls his eyes because the little trio has pulled up next to their table and Steve's staring at Bucky's bobbing Adam's apple with pink-cheeked fascination, tongue darting out to wet his lips before he turns his head and looks at the floor. 

The subtlety's truly impressive. 

" 'M not gettin' into another drinking contest with you Barnes," he huffs, rolling his eyes before turning to the woman beside him (pretty obvious who wears the pants here) and shooting her a wink. "He cheats." 

"The hell do I cheat?" Bucky demands, dropping the legs of his chair back to the floor and kicking Clint in the ankle. "Lyin' ass." 

"Darling, don't be cruel, we have guests." 

Vandyke's been staring at Bucky with a quizzical look that Clint's not sure he likes, almost like the vamp is a puzzle for him to take apart, but now he turns his incredulous attention and after a moment's deadlocked staring barks a laugh. 

"This guy's funny!" he says with a grin to the red-head beside him, who offers Clint a tentative, apologetic, and totally unnecessary smile. 

"Really?" he asks, more than a little surprised. "Wow. People usually don't think I'm funny." 

"Tony Stark," he offers, sticking out a hand, and it's firm and aggressive in a casual, forward kind of way that Clint _does_ likes. "Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist." 

Clint freezes, stuck in the middle of a handshake and abruptly choking on a fit of giggles because wait, seriously? 

The guy's a freaking _leprechaun!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to paperdollkisses for suggesting a list! 
> 
> Clint - 'undeclared' but technically human  
> Bucky - new american vampire  
> Phil - druid  
> Fury - warlock  
> Steve - super soldier  
> Tony - leprechaun  
> Kate - ghost, formerly human  
> Skye - shifter, labrador 


	9. Chapter 9

Clint manages to keep it together long enough to hear Stark accuse Bucky of keeping Clint all to himself and not introducing his charming friend to the town. It's mostly brashness and bluster and it makes him wonder, because he can tell Bucky hasn't introduced _himself_ to these people either. They're not friends – no, they're almost nervous standing there, though admittedly it's for different reasons and he's not sure any of them are actually _afraid_ of the vampire, but still. 

Awkward. 

Easy enough to fix though, so Clint puts on his most charming smile and invites them to join, going so far as to stand and pull out a chair for the lovely strawberry blonde. She's gorgeous and very happily engaged, that much is easy to see, even without the rock on her finger winking at him, but she's receptive to the attention and her fiance is appeased quickly enough when Clint sends him a flirtatious smile of his own. The waitress comes back when the man flags her, Skye apparently, and clears away the empty dishes, returning a few minutes later with several glasses of Scotch and one of a sparkling pink wine that Stark insists on buying. Clint toasts him, sits back in his chair and casually props his elbow on one of Bucky's shoulders. 

"So I'm Clint," he grins, giving his friend a jostle, "And this is Bucky." 

"Thought your name was Barnes?" Stark queries, arching an eyebrow. 

"James Barnes," Clint confirms, ignoring the vampire's scowl. "But friends call him Bucky." 

"So you call me that because...?" 

The table laughs, and Clint claps him on the shoulder. 

"Stick with sullen buddy," he suggests, "I'm cornering 'comedian' in this group." 

"Well I'm Pepper," Stark's fiance offers with a smile, "Virginia actually, but Pepper to my friends." 

"Just Tony," Vandyke shrugs. 

"Steve," Rogers says with a little wave, but he's blushing a little too and Clint can work with that. 

"No, no, no," Stark interrupts, shaking his head and making his scotch slosh as he points vehemently at Bucky's beefy blonde. "You can't just toss it off like that. _Steve._ No, this here is _Captain_ Steven Rogers." 

Clint laughs but Rogers goes bright red, ducks his head bashfully as he mutters that they've already met.  
"Well in that case," Clint chuckles, willing to throw the poor guy a bone, "Staff Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes and Gunnery Sergeant Clinton F. Barton, at your service." 

"You were a Staff Sergeant?" Steve asks, perking up and levelling a heated look of interest at Bucky that actually made the vampire squirm. 

"In the Army at least," he says dismissively, making Clint roll his eyes. "Black ops teams are a little less... formal about the whole ranking thing." 

"You were black ops?" 

"Oh yeah," Clint cuts in with a sharp grin. "That's..." 

"That's _classified,_ " Bucky growls, earning another round of chuckling, though it's a little nervous this time. 

Clint sticks out his tongue. 

" _That_ ," he tries again, "Is where I met this mook." 

"And I've been stuck with you ever since." 

"I'll have you know that I'm a delightful human being," Clint scoffs, and he sees all three of their new friends stiffen, straighten up a bit. 

He almost laughs. 

They think he's human (which, yeah, kinda), and they think he thinks they're human too. He doesn't, obviously, because none of them are, but he's not supposed to know that. That part's probably considered a good thing, so it must be the fact that he's here at all that's got them anxious, that their little shield let him in at all. Then again, maybe they're worried about the fact that he's hanging around with Bucky, the unwitting victim of a bloodthirsty vampire. 

Yeah, that second one's probably it, what with the way they're flicking looks back and forth between the two, eyeing Clint's neck and Bucky's improved complexion. 

He guesses it's kind of touching in a way, that they're worried about him, but really? 

Jesus Christ. 

Bucky seems unphased, which kinda makes it worse, and then Tony dives in hard, making small talk that's somehow aggressive and pointed and sharp, even though his tone is calm and even, his body relaxed. Must be the way he watches them, the shine in his eyes that suggests a powerful mind that never rests. 

"You fellas want to play some pool?" Steve asks abruptly, a blatant ploy to ease the tension that's building subtly between them. 

Clint barks a laugh. 

"Nah man," he chuckles, shaking his head, "I'm not a guy you wanna challenge at pool. Or darts." 

"Yeah, cause that makes it less likley," Stark scoffs, getting to his feet. "Come on, up. Can't expect me to ignore talk like that - pool's just math and there's no way you're beating me at that game." 

Clint cocks an eyebrow, flicks a glance at Bucky who, bless his undead heart, hasn't given anything away. Stark's standing tall and square, chest puffed out, and Clint thinks that maybe he's offended the guy somehow. He'd said genius, and yeah, pool was a lot of math just like archery, so maybe that was it, but genius or not, Clint isn't worried. 

Shrugging, he gets to his feet. 

"Your funeral dude." 

"Cocky," Stark says with a sharp grin, "I like it. Let's make it a little more interesting then shall we? How much cash you got on you?" 

Clint snorts, steps over to the wall and selects a cue from the rack. 

"Couple hundred bucks," he answers without checking, because two hundred dollars is exactly how much he brought with him up here. "You have so much money you gotta give it away?" 

"Come on Tony, it's just a game," Steve mutters, and then Pepper is putting down her wine glass, shooting her fiance a glare before turning on Clint. 

"Steve's right Clint," she says soothingly. "Don't listen to Tony, please. He's just teasing you. Come on, sit back down." 

Clint's eyebrows head for his hairline because _oh._

_Oh my._

Wasn't _that_ just lovely? 

He's never heard a siren's voice before, but Pepper's is beautiful. Sweet, persuasive, deadly, she won't have a problem bending men to her will. 

Most men anyway. 

Nice try beautiful, but Clint's just about as deaf as a post. 

Hasn't he mentioned that? 

Really, it only seems fair, what with how good his vision is. He's got hearing aids, over-the-ear jobs in bright purple, but he tends not to wear them until he's comfortable with the people around him, comfortable showing weakness. Thus far he's been reading lips to supplement the forty percent audio he still picks up and is getting along just fine, but Pepper's not going to have any success swaying him with her voice. She won't once he's plugged in either – the electronics should filter out her influence. 

It's cute that she tries though. 

"Sorry," Bucky mutters in Russian from his seat beside the pool table. "I don't think she usually does that. Just with Stark..." 

Clint shrugs, shoots him a smirk before replying in kind. 

"Maybe she thinks I'm after his lucky charms." 

Bucky barks a laugh but Clint hardly notices, because at just that moment across the bar, one Phillip Coulson laughs too, a sound like wind chimes in Clint's ears over the din of the bar. It can't be coincidence and he's ducked his head now, studiously not looking in their direction, but Clint can see that the tips of his ears have gone pink. 

Is he _eavesdropping?_

"What's it gonna be hotshot?" Stark asks, interrupting his train of thought. "Fifty bucks on the table – keeps it friendly and meets my lovely lady's gambling restrictions." 

"Eh, I'm always up for taking a man's money," Clint says with a shy, self-conscious smile before putting on a grin and turning around, chummily knocking shoulders with Stark as he passes on his way to the table where Steve's racked the balls. "Especially one who's got too much already. You want in on this Buck?" 

"I don't take sucker bets," the vampire deadpans, and Clint looks up from where he's chalking the tip of his cue suggestively. 

"That's not what you said last night," he purrs, and Bucky rolls his eyes while Pepper, Tony, and Steve share uncertain looks. 

"Hah hah smart ass" 

"I'm sorry, don't you mean _great ass_?" he corrects, leaning over the table to break the set, and yeah, maybe he's making lewd gestures and jokes and putting said-ass on display just in case a certain Sheriff really is listening in, but he never said he was a saint. 

"You're twelve," Bucky drawls and Clint smirks. 

"Yeah, twelve in..." 

" _Don't_. Fucking say it," Bucky growls, pinching the bridge of his nose between his metal fingers, but really? 

He'd totally set Clint up for that one. 

Doesn't matter anyway - all three of their new friends were laughing now, even the prim and pretty Pepper, something Clint can appreciate in a woman. He feels a little better knowing that a couple of curse words and crude jokes aren't going to throw her – in fact, it looks like Steve's the one who's gone the pinkest. 

Aww, the Captain's _shy._

"Steeeeeeve," Clint sing-songs, focusing on the smooth glide of the cue in his hands, the crack of the balls as he sends them shooting for different pockets. "Bucky said a swear." 

Stark's roar of laughter is so loud it drowns out the spluttering of other two.

**AVAVA**

By the time Phil gets back from dealing with Derek and Eleanor Bishop, he's tired and hungry and emotionally exhausted. By the time he writes up the interview, puzzles over the information with Fury, and gives the go on the report Rogers has faxed over, he's nearly ready to cry. He wants nothing more than to go home, have a hot meal and a hot shower and tumble into bed, but any and all of that sounds like too much work. It's a poor excuse, but the mental and emotional strain of his job has gotten to him today. If his guard was up he never would have let Fury drag him back to Hart and Hollow for a second night in a row, a Sunday night no less, but it's not.

Morrigan's cross, living in this town already makes him feel like he should be in church on the sabbath, never mind the fact that he's not any kind of Christian. 

Being in a bar just feels sacrilegious. 

The Sunday Special though, _that_ feels like manna from heaven tonight, and he allows Nick to ply him with a mug of Thor's mildest beer while he waits for Skye to serve him up a massive plate of pot roast, mashed potatoes, and green beans, all smothered in hot, savory gravy. He moans out loud at the first bite, sinking back into the plush of the chair that's been acquired specially for him. The corner table has been reserved for Fury for nearly three years now, and he lords over the bar from it like a throne, something Phil had been able to tease him for mercilessly until the day that his own appeared, chancellor to king's court. 

They don't talk about the case. They don't talk about the fact that Kate Bishop is still missing, that Clint Barton says she's dead, a stranger who's given them no more reason to believe him than the fact that he seems to know what they are. They don't talk about the fact that it had taken a warrant to get Derek Bishop to start talking, to let them really search his home and go through his paperwork, an omega werewolf made bitter and angry living without a pack. Eleanor and Kate were both human, not quite enough to settle the man's aggressive, baser nature, but it was the fact that he was involved in questionable business practices that made him leery. 

Personally Phil didn't give a damn about insider trading as long as Bishop didn't bring trouble to the Hollow, but it had been more hassle than he'd bargained for getting the name and number of the art dealer Kate had been talking to out of the man. 

The fact that that person hadn't heard from Kate in days, had been surprised and disappointed when the girl didn't show up to their appointment, well... 

They didn't talk about that either. 

Unfortunately Fury sucks at small talk and Phil's actually praying for a distraction when Clint Barton himself comes swaggering in looking like sex in a leather jacket. 

He should know enough by now to be careful what he wishes for. 

The man is stunningly attractive, Phil can't deny that. There's something entirely physical about him and the way he moves – probably the arms – but even more than that there's a magnetism to him that pulls at Phil, drags at him. It's electric, hot, and he remembers the odd sensation that had overcome him when they'd shaken hands, that swooping tilt that had had him off balance ever since. There's just something so bright about him, so cheerful it's like looking at the sun. 

An apt analogy, given the way Barnes opens up and thrives in under his attention. Phil keeps a casual ear out, a simple spell enhancing his hearing and another that orients him to different communications styles, making sense of the foreign language they both switch to with remarkable ease. It's wrong, he knows it, but he's never heard Barnes actually laugh before, but there he is, the two of them sitting together in the middle of the bar, open and loud and taking up space, something the vampire has tried desperately to avoid ever since he came here. 

It's rather remarkable actually. 

That's certainly not to say that he's paying more attention to the darker, more sullen of the two. No, Barton, _Clint_ is hard to ignore. What with the way he slouches at his table, spreads jean-clad legs wide and strips out of his jacket to show off huge, rolling biceps and smooth, tanned skin, the way his tongue flashes in and out as he licks his knife, his thumb, his lip... 

Phil had nearly choked on his own tongue when he'd moaned into his first sip of Thor's most wicked brew. 

Fuck me indeed. 

He's never reacted so viscerally to someone, never felt this hot, deep-seated _want_ so quickly, so badly. 

It's the anxious kind of distracting, so much so that Nick actually notices and promptly starts laughing at him in his silent, glaring way when Tony Stark, pain in Phil's ass and bane of his existence, goes waltzing across the floor like the lordling he thinks he is and it's nearly enough to give him a coronary. 

At least Pepper is tailing him – she's the only one he's ever seen keep Stark in line. Rogers goes with them too, blushing when he pulls up in front of the table, but Clint takes it all in stride, sits them down at the table and promptly sets about dragging the vampire into the conversation with all the teeth and determination of a dog with a bone. 

It's impressive work, especially in the face of Stark's attitude. He's being his typical asshole self but Clint makes it work to his advantage at every turn, and Phil's not ashamed to say that he's a little turned on by the first man he's ever seen handle Tony Stark, not to mention the revelation that Clint was a Gunnery Sergeant, had made black ops. Call him what you will but there's something to be said about a man like that, and none of it does anything to dampen his growing fascination with the blonde who claims to see ghosts and talk to coffee pots. 

Then he makes a crack about Tony being a leprechaun and a laugh bubbles up out of his chest before he can stop it. 

Ducking his head, he tries to hide his smile but he can't do it – if he didn't believe Barton before he does now. 

Recognizing what Tony is, resisting Pepper's whiles – it's more than impressive if still a little concerning. 

He doesn't know _how_ Clint does what he does, but he's beginning to wonder if it matters. He's man enough to admit that he'd like some help dealing with Kate's case, if there's any chance they might still find her alive, or... even just finding her... well, he'll take it, and right now Clint looks like his best shot. 

Speaking of shots... 

Damn. 

Just... damn. 

When he first bends over the table to start the game, Phil's ashamed to say he's more interested in the way his jeans fit the curve of his ass than anything, the way his tongue curls behind his teeth and his fingers stroke the length of the pool cue. By the time he notices anything else he's got a situation going on in his pants. It takes a shout from Stark, a bewildered, disbelieving statement from Steve, and a bark of laughter from Barnes to make him blink, widen his focus to realize that Clint's sunk every shot he's made. They go double or nothing on a game of darts and Clint nails the board dead center every time, even when he's looking back over his shoulder with a smirk and sparkling blue eyes. 

Phil's stunned and dry-mouthed and so hard it hurts, and across the table Fury looks pissed. 

"Motherfucker," he snarls flatly, glaring at the man across the bar. "I want him in my office and sworn in by Tuesday."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint - 'undeclared' but technically human  
> Bucky - new american vampire  
> Phil - druid  
> Fury - warlock  
> Steve - super soldier  
> Tony - leprechaun  
> Kate - ghost, formerly human  
> Skye - shifter, labrador  
> Derek Bishop - omega werewolf  
> Pepper Potts - siren


	10. Chapter 10

Between two games of pool and four of darts, Clint ends up taking three hundred bucks off of Stark. He should probably feel bad about that but he's too busy laughing – in all fairness he'd warned the man, and he _was_ claiming to be a genius. Anyway, he seemed to be taking it well enough; his attitude had softened and he looked like he was having a good enough time, laughing and grinning and cracking jokes, handing over paper money like it was nothing more than that – paper. Clint can't bring himself to feel guilty about taking cash off a guy who can afford to toss it away like that. 

It is a good time though; eventually he manages to drag Bucky into a game and Stark and Steve both warm up to him a little bit, actually engaging with the vampire in a way that's far less stiff and stilted than it had been before. They've still got a long way to go of course, but it's a start. Bucky's even semi-gracious about the whole thing, though doubtless he'd guessed Clint's purpose before they'd even stepped into the bar. He gets why the man hasn't made friends with these people, he does, but Clint finds he actually likes Steve, suspects that in another setting, after a little more time he might like Tony, and he thinks they'll be good for Buck if he can just foster a little bit of trust between them. 

It's why he cracks a joke about an hour in, when they've all had a chance to buddy up a bit and Pepper's asked about their experience in the armed forces, how they met. Clint's ordered a round of shots with Stark's money, a good-will gesture, and Skye, the waiter, is passing them around the table when he answers. 

"We were on the same missions team for a few years," he explains with a grin, slinging his arm around Bucky's shoulders. "I mean, we're basically brothers. Can't you see the resemblance?" 

This earns a gentle smile from the siren, a bark of laughter from her fiance, but Steve's eyes are lingering, too long to just be establishing the fact that pale, dark-haired, black-eyed Bucky looks nothing at all like blonde, sun-kissed Clint. 

"Well, battle brothers anyway," he amends, letting go of the vampire to accept his shot glass from Skye and shake a dramatic fist. "Forged in fire, born in blood..." 

He pauses, tilts his head, and snorts. 

"Hah!" he says triumphantly, "Vamp joke! That was a good one, I didn't even plan that. So that's what now, thirty-seven, twenty-four?" 

"Still not counting Barton," Bucky rumbles, ignoring the startled, astonished faces around them. 

"Spoilsport." 

Turning in his chair, he leaves the table to stew on what all that means for a minute as he gently catches Skye by the elbow, holds up a twenty and jerks his chin across the bar. 

"How about a shot for the good Sheriff?" he asks, and the girl arches an eyebrow, gives him another long, assessing look. 

"A shot of what?" she asks and Clint shrugs. He'd ordered vodka for the table, but neither the pert and pressed Phil Coulson nor the badass-in-black Mayor Fury looked much like vodka drinkers. 

"Bartenders choice," he replies with a flirty grin. "I'm sure you know what he likes." 

The sharp grin that flashes across her face says that maybe he's made a mistake in underestimating her. 

"You know, I think I know _exactly_ what he likes," she says, and then she's sashaying across the floor toward the bar with a hip-shimmy that would make any red-blooded male look twice. 

"Focus Barton," Bucky scoffs, snapping his fingers in front of Clint's face, making him blink and snap back to attention. "You gonna make a damn toast or what? You only order shots when you're dying or you have a toast to make." 

"This from the man who's already dead," he fires back with a smirk. "Eh. Nope, I got nothin.'" 

It's a lie – there's like, four different puns he could make right now, but he's hoping somebody else will pick up the ball here, make a gesture. He's hoping it'll be Steve if he's honest, but Pepper jumps in first and since she keeps the siren song out of her voice, he'll take what he can get. 

"To new friends," she says, lifting her shot glass, and yeah, that right there's what he was looking for. A little presumptuous this early on, but again, taking what he can get. 

"New friends," the table choruses, everybody mumbling, a little shy, a little unsure, but then they're slamming back their shots and it doesn't matter anymore. 

"Oh _god_ ," Bucky chokes, and Clint's sympathetic because Thor's vodka is nothing like his beer, harsh and cold and abrasive. "Fuck, I miss Russia." 

"Ugh, I don't," Clint groans, wrapping an arm protectively around his torso. "My ribs _still_ hurt. Anyway, nobody misses Russia, they just miss their alcohol, and I may or may not have a bottle of it rolling around in the bed of my truck." 

"Are you from Russia?" Steve asks, and christ his _face_ , it's just so eager and sweet and honest, like a damned golden retriever. 

Blech. 

It's as good a reason as any for Clint to tune out from the table again – Bucky's gotta stand on his own two feet sometime – and besides, there are more interesting things to watch than the vampire's uber-awkward mating dance around Captain America over there, all mom, country, and apple pie. 

Skye's actually behind the counter now, bartender _and_ waitress. She's pulled a beer on his dime, most likely for Fury clever girl, and now she's wielding bottles over a lowball, generic, no labels, but shit, Clint would recognize them anywhere. Kahlua and Bailey's and... yup, that's whipped cream, right out of a canister. _Fuck_ , she's building Coulson a _Blowjob_. 

Finishing off the whipped cream topper with a flourish, the sneaky little shifter lifts her head and shoots him a challenging look, but hey, Clint's always been a daredevil at heart. 

Clint lets a slow, wicked smirk roll over his face and Skye sends him a nod that makes him feel like he's passed some sort of test. He tracks her progress as she makes her way over to the Mayor's table, turns the handle of the beer mug toward him and sets the lowball down in front of the Sheriff. It's a good job Clint reads lips, because the shock on Coulson's face wouldn't be nearly so satisfying without knowing the words that caused it. 

_And for you SC, a blowjob, courtesy of the cutie that just took Stark to the cleaners._

Across the table, Fury flicks him a glance, snorts into his beer. 

_Hell Coulson, it's like you mail-ordered him._

Ok, so Clint's not a hundred percent sure he understood all that, but it sounded good? Coulson's gone pink across the crests of his cheekbones and that right there would make it worth it, but then he lifts his eyes and meets Clint's gaze straight-on, shy but not shying, and oh, he likes that. Electricity shoots through his body, a hot, pleasant little zap, and Clint lifts what's left of his beer, offers the man a silent toast. This time Coulson full-on blushes but he returns the gesture, hesitates for a second as he swirls the glass in his hand. It's a good look on him, a little nervous, but then he then he tilts the glass and sips long and slow from the rim, sucks it back smooth and sweet and licks the cream from the corner of his mouth when he's done and suddenly cute's not the word anymore. 

Aw, dick, no! 

Dragging his eyes away, Clint swallows hard and surreptitiously scooches his chair closer to the table so his hips are out of sight. When he says he's worn his best jeans he means his _tightest_ jeans – now he kinda feels like he's being strangled. Don't get him wrong – there's definitely a time and a place for this kind of... _situation_ , but this is not it. Thank god Bucky's the only one at the table that can scent his arousal, who's familiar enough with him to know what that spark of cinnamon means. 

Doesn't make it any less awkward though. 

Bucky's shifting uncomfortably beside him, flicking him an unreadable look, and Clint would blush if... 

Hang on, what the hell? 

Was this about _Steve?!_

Clint buries a smirk in the last dregs of his beer, his shoulders hitching up around his ears as he tries not to laugh. It's like watching five-year olds in the sandbox – Bucky's pulled this guy's pigtails and now he's got no idea what to do with the resultant attention. Oh god, he doesn't know if it's precious or nauseating. He'd probably stick around to watch and find out but the vamp's thumb is rubbing along the edge of the table, more comm code that to anyone else would look nervous, unsettled, and that's pretty much what it is. 

_Extraction. Now. Pretty please with a cherry on top, get me the fuck out of here..._

Fine, he can do that. He's totally good to pull the guy out, but then suddenly there's a Sheriff standing over him, arms crossed as he looks Clint up and down, and yeah, he's happy staying right where he is thanks. 

"Mr. Barton, if the offer still stands..." he begins hesitantly, and Clint's mind blanks out for a few seconds, cause the only thing he can think is _which offer?_

Between the two, a blowjob sounds like far more fun than ghost hunting. 

Bucky glances in his direction, kicks him in the ankle and gets his wheels turning again. 

"Yeah no, absolutely," he babbles quickly before taking a breath, getting to his feet. 

_Keep it together asshole._

"Whatever I can do to help Sheriff," he says, offering the man his hand. 

Any other time he might have winked, said it with a flirtatious edge that implied personal help rather than professional, but there was a girl missing, almost certainly dead, and well, Clint's not a total monster. Coulson continues to stare, calm, confident, assessing, and it's intense and hot and anxiety-provoking all at once and he doesn’t know what to do with it, tries not to squirm. When he finally reaches up to meet Clint's hand, grips it and shakes it firmly, the increasingly familiar flush of their auras meeting is more comforting than it should be. 

"I'd appreciate any insight you can give me," he admits, and he suddenly looks so shamefaced and near-defeated about it Clint wants to hug him. 

None of this was his fault. 

"Whatever I can do," he says again, and this time he focuses on his aura, on pushing that sentiment down through his veins and wanting Coulson to feel it too. The man sucks in a breath, his eyes darken, and Clint can feel the world tilt again, wonders just how much power this druid has, wants to see him worship the earth and commune with the moonlight. 

Not the time... 

"If you're free tomorrow morning," Coulson suggests, and Clint nods, bites back a bark of laughter. 

What else has he got to do? 

"I am _literally_ here to help Sheriff," he reminds the man. "Should I meet you in your office or..." 

"Yes that's fine," Coulson nods. "Anytime after nine thirty. We'll get you sworn in and then you and I can... discuss our approach." 

"Nine thirty then." 

Coulson frowns, looks like he's about to say something but shakes his head minutely instead, gives him and the rest of the table a nod, then turns on his heel and walks out the door. Clint's left staring after him with a feeling of being incredibly off-balance, one he's not at all accustomed to, and almost desperate to know what the man had been about to say. This man's driving him to distraction, and any other time Clint would either try to fuck him out of his system or haul ass the other way. This time though, this time... 

This time he wasn't sure. 

Coulson's more than a pretty face, a nice, compact body in a sleek suit, and Clint wants to _know_. 

He's never reacted to anyone this way before. 

"What are you running?" Stark asks suspiciously, his eyes hard and cold again. Steve glares and hisses at him but that's ok, Clint doesn't mind that Coulson has someone looking out for him. 

Bucky growls under his breath, making the leprechaun blanche and push back from the table a bit, but Steve looks unconcerned and actually wraps his fingers around Tony's bicep, stilling him. 

"Let's go," Bucky rumbles and Clint almost protests – he doesn't want to end the night on a sour note – but the vamp shakes his head, stands up and slings his jacket over his shoulder. "Come on. It's late; you'll wanna check your gear." 

Shit. 

Can't argue with the logic. 

Shrugging on his own jacket, Clint doesn't wave to the group, the melancholy suddenly too much, but he thinks he hears Steve say goodnight.

**AVAVA**

"Well," Tony asks, watching the door swing shut on Barton and Barnes. "What do we think? I didn't even know Barnes knew how to laugh."

"Maybe that's why he doesn't," Steve murmurs, staring at the door. 

"Whatcha mean Capsicle?" 

"I mean we've never tried to make him comfortable," he says harshly, trademark 'disappointed' all over his face. "We've never tried to include him, engage him. He doesn't have any friends here, and why?" 

"Steve," Tony says, intently, calm, collected, serious now. "He's a vampire." 

"So? Geez Tony, nobody in this town is _normal,_ what does that even _mean?"_ Jerking his chin toward the door, he says what they've all been thinking, the whole of the Hollow. "Barton's his friend. He's human, seems like he knows what Bucky is. He's not complaining." 

"Not dead either," Pepper points out helpfully. "Perhaps we've misjudged him." 

Tony scowled. 

"We'll see," he says ominously, picking up his phone and tapping at the screen. "But this Barton guy, what's he doing here anyway? Coulson's not exactly the warm and welcoming type..." 

"Maybe not with _you_ ," Steve huffs, making Tony stick out his tongue. 

"Whatever. I don't like it. These black ops spy types... I don't trust 'em. How'd he get past the SHIELD anyway?" 

"Tony," Pepper warns, her voice thrumming, but her fiance just waves her off, going back to his phone. 

"Don't worry about it honey bunch," he says, grinning down at his newest micro-tech. "I've got this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint - 'undeclared' but technically human  
> Bucky - new american vampire  
> Phil - druid  
> Fury - warlock  
> Steve - super soldier  
> Tony - leprechaun  
> Kate - ghost, formerly human  
> Skye - shifter, labrador  
> Derek Bishop - omega werewolf  
> Pepper Potts - siren


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Mentions of animal sacrifice - no details and it didn't actually happen.

Bucky wakes him up at the ass-crack-of-dawn (aka six am) to go downstairs and open up the garage, and Clint is unerring in his aim when he blindly pitches a pillow at the open guest room door, catching the other man full in the face. The vamp snarls and flashes a bit of fang, but seriously, what self-respecting vampire is up _before_ the damned sun anyway? He ends up leaving Clint where he lies, not that he stays there long. He's tired and a little achey - half from a mild hangover as expected and half from weariness, his ribs still colorfully bruised and painful enough to distract from sleep - but he's never been able to stay in bed once he's awake. 

Not unless there's someone in it with him anyway, and since he and Bucky had gone their separate ways the night before, each with a different man on their mind, it was a bit of a moot point. 

Mmm, Sheriff Phillip Coulson. 

Clint's mouth curls in a sleepy smile as he rolls onto his back, kicks off the covers and trails a hand lazily down his bare chest, from his sternum all the way down to his waistband. 

Hell that man's good lookin.' Fit 'n fine and so damn sure of himself, and still so easily flustered when he's flirted with. Makes Clint wanna push his buttons, ruffle his feathers under that pressed and proper uniform. He's dying to know what kinds of things make him gasp and blush and squirm, if he's as responsive as Clint's imagination thinks he is and... 

And woah, ok, easy there cowboy. 

Biting his lip, Clint risks a glance down the length of his body to the _situation_ he's got going on in his boxers. Yeah he _really_ doesn't need any help working himself up this morning. 

Hah – _up._

Any other day this wouldn't be an issue. Far from it in fact - any other day this would be a damned good start to the morning. 

Unfortunately, today he actually has to go meet with the guy he's fantasizing about, speak with him on a professional level about a girl who's lost her life, and Clint's smart enough to know that he won't be able to look the man in the eye in a few hours if he jerks off thinking about him now. 

Besides, missing girl, dead girl... total boner killer. 

Grumbling his frustration into the pillow, Clint rolls over the side of the bed and drags himself to his feet, finds a pair of sweats and peers out the window. It's a little foggy out there, still a little cool as the sun hauls itself up above the trees, so he grabs a sleeveless hoodie vest and zips it halfway up. He's got a pair of running shoes somewhere and spends ten minutes looking for them because he's not going running in his combat boots, finds them under the edge of the bed and hits the bathroom before trotting down the stairs. Bucky's bent over the grill of a battered old sedan and he's got the bay doors open to let in the fresh morning air, and Clint tosses the vamp a silent wave before stepping out onto the crushed gravel drive, breathing deep and running through a quick set of stretches before he takes off. 

He's got no destination in mind, isn't following any specific path. He keeps to the edge of the dirt roads even though there doesn’t seem to be a car or a house for ages, enjoys the damp chill on his skin and the way the trees hang out over the trails above him. The woods are fairly thick on either side of him, interposed with crudely edged fields, the fog rolling in off the alfalfa in a thick silver blanket. By the time he comes to the long, split-rail fence two miles from where he started he's loose and warm and hitting his stride, the dull ache in his ribs slowly fading behind the thump, thump, thump of his heart in his chest and in his ears when that stupid, electric tingle starts creeping up the back of his spine. 

Without his permission his feet slow to a walk and his eyes start searching, take in the way the road forks ahead of him, the little red slat-sided barn at the edge of the field off to his right and the cabin he can barely see beyond. The closer he gets the more he can see of the property that's been cleared between the trees and his suspicions are mounting of just who's house he's stumbled across when a burst of noise startles him and a little flock of goats comes barreling up to the fence from across the paddock, all bleats and clopping hooves and clanging bells. Clint grins, laughs at their sudden appearance, jogs up to the fence to stand on the lower rail and lean over, to watch as they run up to the barn in a flurry of movement and joyful noise. 

He's only half expecting it really when Phil Coulson himself steps out of the barn, jeans and tall rubber boots and a large metal pail in one hand. He's grinning, a truly happy expression as the goats swarm around him, tall and knobbly and bigger than Clint had thought, coming nearly to the man's hips as they buffet him back and forth, nibbling at his sleeves and nosing at the bucket he's carrying. For a few minutes he laughs, speaks to them quietly as he tugs at a beard here, scratches an ear there, and Clint's close enough that he can hear the affection in his voice, see it in the way he touches each of the animals. 

Taking a plastic scoop from his pail, he dips into the bucket and starts sprinkling something across the bare earth around the front of the barn, stepping carefully around the animals to distribute the feed evenly as he starts to sing quietly in a low, smooth baritone. 

_Strangers in the night exchanging glances. Wond'ring in the night what were the chances. We'd be sharing love before the night was through..._

Clint's grin softens to something fonder as he watches, puzzling at this powerful druid who sings Sinatra and dotes on his farm animals before slipping into four-figure suits and fighting small-town crime without a hitch. It's odd and adorable and he finds he rather likes it, so much so that he stands there like a creep with his elbows on the fence instead of announcing his presence like any other decent human being would. 

_Something in your eyes was so inviting. Something in your smile was so exciting. Something in my heart told me I must have y..._

Coulson jerks, almost stumbles over the goat that's rudely knocked into the backs of his knees just as he catches sight of Clint. His mouth snaps shut and he goes awesomely, adorably pink, and Clint wonders how he's going to play this, but the man just squares his shoulders and firms his jaw determinedly before crossing the last few yards between them, boots splatting in the damp paddock mud. 

"Didn't know you and Buck were such close neighbors," he says with a grin as Coulson reaches the fence. 

"Two miles is close?" 

"I'm thinking up here it is," he laughs, pleased when the man huffs a laugh of his own and then abruptly breathless when his eyes trace Clint from top to bottom, lingering on the bare skin of his chest peeking out above the vee of his zipper. 

"Out for a run?" he asks, quirking a brow. 

"Couple of miles," Clint grins, cocking his hip against the fence and folding his arms across his chest, flexing his biceps. "Still be in bed if I wasn't." 

Coulson blinks, eyes going hazy for all of a second, and Clint wonders if the guy is thinking about exactly what Clint had been doing in bed this morning, but then he's shrugging and clearing his throat, looking over his shoulder when the clang of brass bells precedes the arrival of his goats around his knees. They've finished the feed on the ground and are nosing around for more, and he flicks Clint a glance before tipping the bucket in his direction. 

"Um, no thanks?" he says uncertainly, peering at the dark, sticky feed inside. Really it doesn't seem terrible, looks like granola and smells like sweet, earthy molasses, but still. "I'm uh, more of a bacon and waffles kinda guy." 

Phil huffs, rolls his eyes and chuckles. 

"I'll keep that in mind," he drolls in the same low, smooth voice he'd sung in, and the electricity of his aura crackles. 

Clint finds himself hoping it's more than just a tease, so he reaches in and scoops up a handful, pours it from hand to hand as he watches Phil sprinkle more across the dirt. 

"Do they bite?" he asks, watching the goats suspiciously. 

They're cute, sure, but they're bigger than most dogs and they must have some serious choppers what with the way they're trimming the grass to get at the grain. 

"That one does," Coulson replies, jerking his chin at the black and white spotted one Clint's been eyeing. 

Clint humphs, steps to the left and crouches to offer his palm to the goat nearest the fence. There are five but this one looks the sweetest, sticks close to Phil's side and nudges his thigh for pets instead of battering at the others for her share of the feed. At least, Clint thinks it's a her; all of them have big, heavy udders that sway when they walk – like, seriously, he can practically _hear_ the sloshing. 

"That's Dottie," Coulson says, tossing the last of the feed out onto the ground and watching the grey and white animal lick the grain politely from Clint's palm. "She's a Toggenburg." 

"Pretty," Clint says with a smile, scratching the goat under her chin, stroking her curved, upright ears, surprised by their softness. 

"She's a sweetheart," Phil admits with a look of fondness, reaching over to rub the top of her head. "I've had her... six years now? Was having some problems and I thought I'd have to... try a little bloodletting." 

Clint looks up, struck by the shame in the man's voice. He's staring at the goat with real regret in his eyes, even though animal sacrifice was still a fairly common practice amongst certain druid guilds. He thinks it tells him a lot about the man's character. 

"Couldn't do it?" he asks gently, even though he knows the answer, can see it in the soft, warm colors curling around the older man. 

"Didn't need to," he answers with clear relief. "I thought I could. Thought I'd _have_ to. Was more than a little desperate at the time. But the issue resolved itself, thank the goddess, and it's a good thing too, because when it was over I was about ninety-nine point nine percent sure I couldn't have done it." 

Phil laughs, looks a little surprised at himself. 

"Anyway, never again," he says with a shrug, giving the goat one last scratch. "Switched to Nubians after that," he adds, gesturing to the rest of the herd, all a smattering of mottled colors and graced with long, floppy, hound-dog ears. "Like the quality of their milk better. Couldn't get rid of her though." 

"And now she lives like a queen," Clint smiles. 

"Something like that." 

"It's a good story," Clint says warmly, standing up and dusting off his hands. "Says a lot." 

Phil's brow furrows and he turns to look at Clint with a questioning expression, but he doesn't know if he wants to explain himself just yet, doesn't know if he can. Feels like giving away too many secrets too soon, so instead he gives the guy a half-smile, knocks on the wood rail in farewell, and takes off again. He's only a few strides up the road when he turns to look back over his shoulder, catches Coulson staring at his ass with his goats milling around him and tosses the man a sharp salute. 

"See ya at work boss!"

**AVAVA**

A mixed-response frustration has Clint rounding out his run at a solid eight miles, plenty far enough to have him easy and calm by the time he gets back to the garage, but not even remotely close to his limit. Being a ruthless sniper-cum-mercenary has its perks, one of them being some pretty damned impressive endurance. Bucky's still buried in the sedan's front end so he trots upstairs for a shower, tries to tame his hair into some semblance of propriety before dressing in something slightly more work-appropriate than his bar get-up from the night before.

Hey, at least he'd foregone the eyeliner right? 

He doesn't exactly have a police uniform in his duffel, hell, doesn't even have his Sergeant's blues anymore. Pretty sure they're in a storage locker in Panama, along with his Ronin shit, and he's not really ready to bust out his Hawkeye gear yet. Not sure he needs it anyway, not today, not before he actually has the chance to talk to Kate again. The black cargoes and the combat boots he can work with, but the tac vest and the leather jacket and his bow are staying home. A white button down should work just fine, even if it does make him look like a mall cop, and he can separate his shoulder holster out from all the rest to tuck his pistol in beneath his arm. Switching back to his linen flak jacket, he grabs his wallet and his helmet and heads back down again. 

"Hey Buck, I'm headed down to the Sheriff's," he calls, crossing over to the corner where he's stashed his bike. 

"Try not to stir up any shit while you're out then." 

Clint turns, glares at the vampire who's silently appeared from the office just a few feet away, on the other side of the garage than he'd originally occupied. 

"Since when do I stir up anything?" 

"Brussels, Munich, Budapest..." he counts, ticking them off on metal fingers. 

"Yeah, yeah. Hey I'm gonna grab a couple steaks from that general store on my way back, you want anything? Fruit or chocolate or whatever?" 

" _No,_ I don't need you to bring me chocolate. I don't need any _tampons_ either - Christ Barton, I'm not your girlfriend." 

"Aw. But sweetie," Clint whines, sidling up and slinging his arm around Bucky's shoulders, slapping his hard, flat belly. "I just wanna take care of you and the baby." 

"You're such a moron," Bucky accuses, shoving him off but scrubbing his hair roughly in the same move. "Besides, there's a farmer's market on Friday." 

"Oh so that's how it is," Clint sniffs, tugging on his helmet and flipping up the visor to narrow his eyes. "Not even allowed to provide anymore, my manhood stolen from me..." 

"Pretty sure I'm not the one who stole it," Bucky snorts, turning away and heading toward Coulson's gleaming Corvette. "Tell the _Sheriff_ he can pick up his ride tomorrow morning. Any time after ten." 

"And now reduced to messenger boy," Clint mutters. "Fine! I'll run your errands, but I expect there to be a shiny new range waiting for me out back when I get home." 

"Whatever you say darlin!" 

Clint shakes his head and mounts his bike, kicks the thing to life. Damn he's missed this – it's always been easy to joke with Bucky, to let his guard down. You'd think he'd be conditioned against it since they've spent like, eighty percent of their time together under fire or being interrogated or running for their lives, but all it's meant is that he knows Bucky's ready and willing to watch his back. Safe to sleep when it's his turn to be on guard, smart to trust his instincts, and he knows that Buck feels the same way about him in return. His sense of humor could use some work but Clint supposes you can't expect comedy genius out of everyone. 

Although, he muses as he rides into town, parks the Kawasaki in front of town hall, the tampon crack may have been an attempt. He might be able to make a vamp joke out of that... 

Can't really think of one that isn't... well, kinda squicky. 

No offense ladies. 

Seriously though, those things are actually kind of perfect for field dressing gunshot wounds. 

Oh yeah, he skipped the coffee this morning didn't he? 

Damn Bucky and his freaky weirdo dislike for liquid caffeine gold. 

Stepping into the lobby of town hall, he's greeted by the same young woman who'd been there before - Darcy, he's pretty sure. She doesn't look up when he comes in so he flicks a hopeful glance at the coffee pot he'd sweet-talked the day before, but it's sitting cold and dormant again and the clock on the wall above it tells him he hasn't got the time for a repeat performance. 

"Ms. Lewis?" he asks, sidling up to the desk and smiling when she lifts her head to greet him. "I'm here to see the Sheriff?" 

"Mr. Barton, right?" She asks, running her finger down a thick, leather-bound planner filled with small, neat writing and multi-colored sticky notes. 

"Just Clint." 

"Sure. The Sheriff had to step out a second, but he should be right..." 

"Back," Coulson finishes, stepping through the doors, two tall, ceramic travel mugs in his hands. "Thank you Darcy. We'll be in my office if anything serious comes up." 

"Sure thing boss," the girl says cheerily, and just that easy Clint's following the man up to his office, down and to the right of Fury's, which stands open and empty. 

"Nick's not really a morning person," Coulson explains when he catches Clint peering inside as they pass. "Rather more like a vampire himself that way. You'd think he's allergic to sunrise." 

"Good job somebody is," Clint grumbles, stepping ahead when Coulson ushers him inside and taking a seat on the couch situated against the wall. It's a nice little sitting area Coulson's got staged, and he'd rather that than sit on the other side of his wide, mahogany desk feeling like a juvie in the principal's office. "Ass woke me up at god o'clock this morning." 

"And yet here you are," Coulson says with a small grin, handing Clint one of the mugs he's holding and taking a seat in the wingback chair positioned at right angles to Clint's side. "Neither turned to stone nor ash, nor melted away." 

"Not yet anyway," he acknowledges, toasting the man with his mug. "Was a close thing though – who knows how long I would have lasted without a little of the good stuff?" 

"It's not bacon and waffles," Coulson shrugs, cheeks a little pink, and Clint smiles into the fragrant steam. 

"Maybe another time though," he suggests, and it's a little too hopeful to be as casual as he'd meant it. 

Coulson looks up at him from behind the rim of his own mug and Clint thinks he smiles. 

"Maybe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Guys I have goats. Pygmys mostly, but they're so great. Like seriously, I've bottle-raised babies from two-days old, and they are the sweetest, most fun ever!**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Phil's singing Sinatra's 'Strangers in the Night.'


	12. Chapter 12

It's not fair really, how good he looks. Just a couple hours ago he'd been stomping around in the mud and manure, caring for his little herd of goats and yet here he is, cleaned and pressed in a full navy-colored suit, smooth-shaven and touched up with a cool sandalwood cologne. He wouldn't look out of place in any court or boardroom, and Clint finds that incredibly attractive. 

And really, he's brought Clint coffee – what more could a man ask for? 

They talk for a bit about nothing much at all, and it's surprisingly easy even though they don't know each other. They find a balance between stilted remarks on the weather and the shared stories of intimate friends, chatting about nothing until they hit on a shared love for Dog Cops, which somehow manages to lead to the confirmation of Tony Stark's genius status when Clint expresses surprise that the Hollow has access to basic cable. Coulson offers to have the man supe up Clint's cell phone, an offer he initially declines until the Sheriff points out that he'd actually like to be able to get ahold of Clint when he calls. 

"You asking for my phone number?" he smirks, draining the last of his coffee as he waggles his eyebrows in Coulson's direction. 

"You already gave it to me remember?" 

Clint huffs, pouts when Coulson gets up and moves to the chair behind his desk, signaling the end of their little coffee break. Maybe he should have kept his business card back a little longer, played hard to get. 

Never was Clint's style though; he likes to flirt too much, and when he really likes somebody he's pretty damned straightforward. 

Maybe too much sometimes. 

Getting up, he moves to the seat across from Coulson, abandons the ease and comfort of the plush little sitting area and feels the intensity of their work settle onto his shoulders. Coulson's fishing a file from the cabinet behind him, dropping it onto the desk when the speakerphone crackles to life. 

"Boss, Stark's here," Darcy's voice announces, and Clint raises an eyebrow when Phil sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

"Send him up," he says, turning to Clint with an apologetic grimace. "Speak of the devil in Downer's Hollow and he shall appear," he warns. "And worse, he won't go away until he's satisfied." 

Clint opens his mouth to retort – sounds more like an incubus than the devil, or a leprechaun for that matter, but before he can say anything the door is swinging open without any more preface than that, Stark swanning in like it's his office, not the Sheriff's. 

"Hey Agent Agent, got a question for you about the new... guy." 

The man nearly stumbles when he finally raises his head from his phone and looks up to find Clint sitting in front of him, ankle resting causally on his knee. To his credit he doesn't blush or stammer, just smirks like he hasn't just been caught coming to the mill for fresh rumors. Clint can respect that. 

"For the last time Mr. Stark, I am no longer an agent of anything," Coulson huffs, before sweeping a hand in Clint's direction. "But since he's here, perhaps you'd like to ask him yourself." 

"Now where's the fun in that?" 

"Then I don't suppose you'd consider making yourself useful instead of just interrupting a work conference unannounced?" 

"Please, your little secretary totally announced me," Stark scoffs before narrowing his eyes and looking Clint up and down suspiciously, turning back to Coulson without any further acknowledgment than that. "And don't think you and I won't be discussing that soon. But, since we're in mixed company, what can I do for you?" 

Coulson jerks his chin in Clint's direction, then turns to power up the computer on his desk. He's being deliberately casual and dismissive, handling Stark like a pro, and damn is Clint enjoying the show. 

"He needs his phone boosted," he says, eyes still on his computer. "I need to be able to call him." 

"Right, for _work_ I assume," Stark sniffs before holding out a hand. "Come on, give it here then. Yeesh, you tell a _few_ people you're a genius engineer and suddenly you're local tech suppo... wait what is this?" 

"The Soviet solution to the iPhone," Clint drawls, watching Tony turn the phone over and over in his hand. "Straight from St. Petersburg herself." 

"Is this a two gig micro-amplifier?" 

"Don't ask me," Clint shrugs. "I stole it." 

Stark barks a laugh and Phil huffs, but the joke's on them cause he really did. Course, he left about a pint of blood and one of his fillings behind, so Clint's gonna have to call it even. 

"Can you do it or not?" Phil asks impatiently as Tony pops the cover off the back of the phone. 

The man snorts. 

"I find your lack of faith disturbing Sheriff," he replies, and ok, Clint likes him a little bit more now. "Course I can do it. Have it back by noon. Hey, you don't mind if I take this apart do you?" 

"Sure," Clint replies, "Knock yourself... out." 

Apparently his permission wasn't necessary because the man's gone before he even begins his sentence, and Clint's left feeling like he was just run over by a whirlwind. He stares dumbfounded between the empty door and Phil's face, which has the good grace to arrange itself in an expression close to sheepish. 

"I'd apologize for him, but..." he says, going glassy-eyed as he stares off into the distance, "He doesn't get better." 

Now it's Clint's turn to laugh. There's history there, he can see it, but nothing serious, all fairly good-natured, reluctant fondness hiding underneath. 

"Nah, don't worry about it boss," he grins. "I can handle a hyped-up little green-man, even if he is a genius." 

Phil goes still, silent, his stare suddenly turning impressed and astonished as a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. 

"What _are_ you?" he asks, and Clint blushes, shifts uncomfortably. 

"Nothin' special," he mutters, his face painfully red. 

"Now _that_ you _absolutely_ are," Phil says softly, staring at Clint like he's something rare while his sparkling silver aura thins and softens, goes warm and ashy grey at the edges. "My SHIELD wouldn't have let you in otherwise." 

"Fuck Phil if that was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," Clint blurts, shocked by his own spontaneous honesty, but it has the happy consequence of making the other man sit his turn through a blush. "Can't wait to see what you can do. I mean..." 

Shit. 

But Phil's looking up at him with a shy grin and ok, that's not so bad. 

"Maybe some other time," he says, mimicking Clint's words, and yeah, he can work with that. 

Can even push it a little. 

"It's a date then." 

Phil chuckles, sits back and flips open the file on his desk. 

"You're very good at distractions Mr. Barton," he grins. 

"Boss, you have no idea. And it's Clint, seriously." 

"Phil then. Let's get to work shall we? Knowing Stark he'll be back well before noon in an attempt to aggravate me into an early grave." 

"Sure." 

"All right then. Fury's signed off on the paperwork to bring you in as liaison, so legally I can disclose aspects of this case to you that I didn’t give to Rogers. Let me read you the confidentiality clause and we'll get started." 

It's to Clint's credit that he pays attention and stays professional for the rest of the morning. Leaning forward to rest his elbows on the edge of the desk, he ignores the way Coulson licks the tip of his thumb to page through the file and focuses instead on the calm, confident way he speaks about the case. He's clear and direct but not without sympathy, something Clint hadn't realized it was possible to pull off. He doesn't hide the fact that he cares about Kate, about the potential danger posed to the rest of his community. 

Carefully he lays out their timeline, details the discussions he's had with Kate's parents and the gallery owner she was supposed to meet. He has contacts in a local precinct a few hours down the mountain, the city the gallery is located in, and has put out an alert for Kate and for her '93 Four Runner. He shares his concerns about the lack of evidence and his lack of direction, his suspicions that, if Kate truly is dead, she never made it off the mountain. He doesn't go out of his way to say he believes Clint, but he certainly doesn't rule anything out either, and Clint supposes that's for the best. 

"You know what that means right?" Clint asks hesitantly, meeting Phil's gaze. "If she was killed before she made it down." 

"I'm aware of the ramifications, yes," Phil sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face, suddenly looking very weary and worn. "Basic addition would suggest that someone from the Hollow is responsible for Kate's disappearance." 

Clint doesn't argue Phil's use of the word 'disappearance' in favor of 'death.' Seems kinda rude to be honest. He's willing to bet the man knows each and every member of this little gated city personally – the thought that one of them is a killer has to be hard to swallow. 

Dangerous too. 

"Listen, I'm new here," he says, as delicately as possible. "I don't know this place, these people. Just what I can see. You, you're known here, trusted here. You're important..." 

"So I should have a clue where to start?" Coulson huffs self-deprecatingly. "I don't. I never would have even thought..." 

"But you've got one thing right," he says after a pause, "You are new here. These people, they don't trust easily. You bypassed the SHIELD without a problem; worse, you're friends with Barnes." 

Clint feels his belly go cold, his face harden, but Coulson puts his hands up in surrender. 

"I won't say I was the friendliest but I don't have a problem with the man. The others I can't vouch for. His... _proclivities_ stir up a lot of fear in people; he'll be the first person they expect me to investigate. Especially when they find out Kate was hanging around his garage." 

"What's your point?" Clint snaps. "You telling me Bucky's actually a suspect?" 

"I'm telling you I'll have to look into him," Coulson ground out. "At the very least to keep up appearances and stave off a lynch mob!" 

Clint huffs, looks away, because ok, fair. 

Buck's probably the first person he'd look at too. 

"My _point_ ," Coulson continues, settling down a little as tempers cool, "Is that this is going to be dangerous for you. For both of you. Barnes I believe can take care of himself, but people are going to wonder about you. Why you showed up out of nowhere and are suddenly working the case right along with me." 

Clint frowned, tilted his head. 

"Is this you giving me an out?" he asks. 

"This is me giving you an out," Coulson nods. "From what I understand, you didn't know what you were in for when Barnes called you up here. Things haven't done anything so much as gotten worse since you arrived. I'm not blaming you of course, but... I'd understand if you... wanted to withdraw the offer." 

For a moment Clint doesn't reply, just sits there with mixed feelings and once again thinking – which _offer_? 

As far as he's concerned, neither is off the table just yet. 

"Nah Boss," he says finally. "I'm in. However I can help. The girl deserves it at the very least. Besides, Bucky's not the only one who can take care of himself." 

"Glad to hear it," Coulson replies before jerking his chin toward Clint's shoulder. "That's the only reason I haven't asked if you're actually licensed to carry that." 

Clint grins – good eye Coulson. 

"Gunnery Sergeant," he points out unnecessarily – he knows the man was eavesdropping last night. "I'm licensed to carry in more countries than I can pronounce. And uh, not to brag or anything but... I'm pretty much the best damn shot you've ever seen." 

"Haven't seen anything yet," the man says with just a touch of slyness, and oh yes, there's that side of him that Clint likes. 

"Maybe I'll give you a private show," he purrs. "Bucky's supposed to be putting up a range, and he says Lola'll be ready by ten." 

"I'll think about it." 

Good enough, for now anyway. 

"So listen, speaking of thinking about it," Clint ventures. "You know how you wanna go at this?" 

"Honestly?" Phil chuckles flatly. "No idea." 

"SHIELD can't give you an idea of where to start?" 

"No," he snorts. "It's a lot bigger than you'd think. Circles a lot of ground. It would take days for a search party to cover the Hollow, weeks maybe, where the terrain gets rough. And even if I could cover it with magic, do it remotely from a grove or a circle, she could be lying just outside of it and I'd miss her entirely." 

Perfect, pained silence passes, one Clint can't bring himself to break, but eventually Coulson clears his throat and does it himself. 

"Not good for much is it?" 

His voice is hoarse and tight, and he says it to himself, not Clint, so he doesn't reply. 

"Anyway, that's not really how it works," he says, more strongly now as he sits up and shuffles his file back into order. "You think you'll see her again?" 

"I hope so. Saw her once; means she's here, has unfinished business or whatever. Don’t really know a lot about ghosts to be honest, but she knows this place. Means she'll probably stick around. If she's here I'll see her again." 

"Could she lead us to her..." 

Coulson pales a bit, swallows, and again Clint is struck by the fact that this man _cares_ about this teenage girl, like she was his own niece or daughter. 

"I don't know," he says carefully. "I think... I think ghosts are... _tethered_ to their bodies sometimes. Like, they can only go so far from it? But that's not always the case, and if she's connected to this place by something else, family, friends..." 

"Then it won't matter." 

"No. And there's no guarantee she'll remember what happened either. _Probably_ won't, actually. I wouldn't count on her to solve this thing." 

"Yes, well, I don't suppose that would be fair to expect of her in any case. Keep an eye out then. I suppose that's the most I can ask of you for now. I'll keep up my investigation on this end and if nothing's turned up by the end of the week I'll organize a search. People I trust." 

"Sounds like a plan Boss." 

Coulson nods, sits back in his seat and looks Clint up and down. He waits the man out, lets him have his moment to think. He's going to say something, he knows he is, but before he can open his mouth the intercom crackles again and Darcy's voice comes floating out of the air to interrupt a second time. 

"Sheriff, Mr. Stark is back." 

"Thank you Miss Lewis," Phil sighs, massaging his temples. "We'll be right down." 

The man growls as he gets to his feet, rounds the desk to shake Clint's hand. 

"Thank you, for your help Clint," he says, gripping his hand firmly, holding on just a little too long. "I really do appreciate it. Anything that will help bring Miss Bishop home..." 

Clint looks, really looks at the man for the first time without the rosy glasses of lust and cutesy charm, sees the weariness in the slope of his shoulders and the shadows under his eyes and the way his suit is just a little bit crooked. It hurts something small and tender inside him and he opens his mouth before he can think the better of it. 

"Hey, um, do you... do you want a hug?" 

Phil pulls back, arches an eyebrow. 

"Excuse me?" 

"Don't make it weird Coulson," Clint grumbles, playfully scolding as he holds out his arms. "Come on. I give great hugs, and you look like you could use one." 

He honestly doesn't expect the guy to take the offer, expects to have to laugh it off and walk out with a fake grin on his face, but before he can make himself do it he's suddenly got an armful of Sheriff, warm and firm and tucking himself in close. He's got his arms wrapped low around Clint's waist, holding on tight as he leans against Clint's chest, pressing his face to the curve of his throat, and he can feel the delicate glide of the druid's magic, the druid's aura winding around him like silk. Wrapping his own arms around Phil's shoulders, he pushes his own aura out toward him, tries to be a rock trellis for Phil's silver strands to climb. 

Something slips and the world slides out of focus, for the moment the two of them the only ones that exist. Phil fits against him like a puzzle piece, clicks into all the broken places Clint carries on his shoulders like chips, all the old scars. It's beautiful and terrifying and the most awe-filled thing he's ever felt, and when Phil pulls back Clint can't do anything but stare, marvel at this man he doesn't really know who makes him feel things he's never felt before.


	13. Chapter 13

"For fuck's sake Barton, just flush it!" Bucky growls after an eternity of watching Clint turn his cell phone over and over in his hand. "There's a reason I won't let Stark near my shit, if he ever asks." 

"Nah," Clint sighs, finally shoving the thing back into his pocket. "More fun to pretend I _don't_ know he's bugging and tracking the thing. Genius my ass." 

"Don't underestimate him," he warns. "He's smart. _And_ lucky." 

Clint snorts but doesn't deny it, and Bucky supposes that's all he can ask. Clint's always been one to play with fire, to leap before he looks. Warn him off something and he's all the more likely to go poking his nose where it doesn't belong. Hell it's what got him up here with nothing more than a cryptic phone call. Wouldn't be such a bad thing if he weren't so horribly, fragilely human. Bucky'd offered him the bite once but he'd refused it with a grin and a wet, gritty laugh, said to ask him again when he was dying. 

He'd been choking on his own blood at the time, but whatever. 

Shaking his head, Bucky turns back to the steaks he's tending on the grill, takes a swig of Thor's bottled beer. The shop's closed up for the night, the sun starting to set, and the night is coming in cool and sweet and soothing on his face. He and Clint are up on the roof instead of inside, and more than anything he appreciates a little open air after a day spent indoors, even if his large garage is less confining than most civilized spaces. 

His friend had wandered back mid-afternoon, and Bucky had been glad he'd used his lunch break to set up a range out back. The guy looked pale and shaken but brushed him off when he mentioned it, so Bucky had gone back to work on the Sheriff's 'vette without any more questions. He'd seen the archer sneaking out the door with his bow in hand and hadn't heard any more from him for a solid three hours, so by the time he'd scrubbed the motor oil from beneath his fingernails and lit the charcoal, the guy was looking a hell of a lot better, if not entirely himself yet.

Turning the foil wrapped potatoes, Bucky replaces the grill lid and flops down onto one of the lawn chairs he's dragged up here. Clint's in the other, pulled close to the edge so he can dangle his feet over the side, and for a while they both stare out into the woods in silence, listening the subtle shift of the world into night noises. Crickets start to sing and a ways off Bucky can hear a herd of deer starting to move through the underbrush, the mountain laid out before him like a kingdom he doesn't deserve. 

This was the reason he'd moved up here, the quiet and the beauty and the vast emptiness. The community, the SHIELD, the Hollow; they were all secondary to him, a luxury that kept him in electricity and internet and running water, nothing more. In his most dark and lonely moments he wonders what more would be like; to laugh with the rest of them, to run around wreaking havoc with Stark, to steal a kiss from Steve... 

Pipe dreams, he knows that. He sees the way they all look at him. He knows what he is, feels it in his gut when his stomach twists so hard with hunger he can't see straight. That's when he takes to the refuge of the woods, the trails that run dark and deep and cool where the trees haven't seen human trespass in decades, if at all. The venom of his breed has made him a hunter, a ruthlessly efficient killer by necessity if nothing else. The taste of blood, that first hot burst of rich copper across his tongue is an intoxicating thing, as is the rhythmic pump and pull of a rapidly slowing heartbeat. 

It's easy to get lost in that moment. 

There's a wildness in him now, an animal instinct that demands to be fed, and they can sense it. 

He's a hunter. 

But there's a great stillness in him too and that's what they don't understand. 

A great, yawning stillness that comes with an absent pulse and an eternity of years stretching out ahead. 

Some days he feels like all he's doing is passing the time. 

Waiting. 

"They're going to come for you," Clint says quietly, his words clanging around inside Bucky's hollow chest like steel ball bearings. "Even if Coulson clears you." 

"I know that," Bucky replies, wondering, not for the first time, if Clint really does think he's an idiot or if he just doesn't realize he treats him like one sometimes. "Why do you think I hauled your ass up here?" 

"Could be bad," he continues, after a moment's introspection. " 'Specially if they know Kate used to hang out up here." 

Bucky knows that too. 

"Again I say – why do you think you're here? Figured you could at least thin the herd a little before one of 'em drags you down, give me a chance to make like a vampire and disappear." 

"Oh I see how it is. Your best friend, reduced to mere cannon fodder." 

"Seemed happy enough to fill the position in Munich." 

Clint chuckles, and for a while they're both quiet, remembering a different time, continents away. 

"I can't prove I didn't do it," Bucky says at last, "But they can't prove I did either." 

"Will that be enough?" 

"For Coulson? Sure. Fury too for that matter. The rest of them, maybe not, especially if they find her body." 

"What about Daddy Bishop? He sounds like a gem." 

"Him I'm worried about," Bucky admits, getting to his feet to check the grill. "Fuckin' werewolves. Bastard gets pretty pissy 'round the new moon. Could be a problem." 

Yeah, problem. 

Considering that American Vampires were their weakest on that most moonless night of the month, 'problem' could be a serious understatement. 

If the guy got it into his head that Bucky had murdered his girl and came raging around, he wouldn't stand a chance. 

Contrary to pop culture myth, werewolves weren't confined to their human skins outside of the full moon – they could change at will no matter the stage of the lunar cycle. 

Without his own teeth and claws to protect himself, Derek Bishop could tear him apart like Christmas wrapping paper. 

"Aw, don't you worry your pretty little head doll face," Clint mumbles, looking out over the trees. "I'll have your back." 

And that's it, the real reason he asked Clint up here. It's easy with him in a way it's not with anyone else. They've got each other's backs, plain and simple, without expectation. He still doesn't understand how that happened, why Clint had been dumb enough to befriend him during their Black Ops days. He'd never treated Bucky any different than anyone else, until the day he'd gotten his arm blown off by an IED and Clint had been there risking his life by opening his wrist for a dying, pain-addled vamp. 

Yeah, they'd been through some shit, the two of them. 

They'd be through some more before this crazy ride was over. 

"That's not what's got you weird though." 

He doesn't ask, it's not a question. 

He doesn't need Clint to confirm it. 

It's an opening, that's all, and he doesn't have to wait long for Clint to take it. 

"We hugged." 

"Excuse me?" he asks flatly, pausing with a steak halfway between grill and plate. 

"We hugged." 

"I heard you asshole," he growls, flicking Clint's ear sharply where he's got his bright purple hearing aids dialed in. "Now try using words that make sense. It's not just a hug that's got you all twisted up." 

It takes a minute – Bucky's got potatoes and onions and steaks all plated up with a mess of A-1 and sour cream on top before he opens his mouth – but eventually he cracks. 

Clint never could let a silence stand. 

"Never felt anything like that Buck," he breathes. "Was like... shit I don't even know. Like the world went right for a minute." 

"And that's a bad thing?" 

"Yes. Maybe. Just... easy to get addicted to somethin' like that, you know? To start needing it." 

"Still not hearing the problem." 

"Fuck you," Clint grumbles. " 'S not supposed to happen like that. Not supposed to be that easy. There's no such thing as soulmates." 

"No shit." 

Clint blushes, opens his mouth like he's going to say something but thinks the better of it and shuts up again, and thank god for that because Bucky's not in the mood to have that conversation again. What's the point in rehashing old history anyway? It can't change what's done, doesn't serve to do anything but piss everybody off, and really, why bother when you've got forever stretching out in front of you anyway? 

"Sorry." 

"Forget it," Bucky scoffs. "I'm not the only one she left." 

They don't talk after that, the specter of a red-headed valkyrie haunting their memories, and Bucky thinks that maybe Clint is hurting even more than he is. He may have loved her, with everything he had and was, but he hadn't been hers like Clint had been. 

But if there's anything he's learned from what is essentially immortality, it's that all things end. 

They wind up building a target at the far end of the roof and throwing knives at the thing by turns until the center of the bullseye is completely eaten away, unable to stand up to their ire or to the sharpened, tensile steel. It's an exercise in silence and a strange type of frustration, the kind that makes you restless and unsure why. It embarrasses him – he has more control than this – so when he's finished his fifth go-round and fetched the knives back, he drops down into his chair with a huff and starts sharpening them, one by one. 

Clint takes his cue and picks up his bow, walks to the edge of the roof. Bucky's set targets out at twenty yard intervals, all the way up to one hundred, down the little path he likes to follow into the trees, and Clint's got nearly a bucketful of arrows. They pass another hour with their respective toys before full dark has set, deep purple and black and blue, the stars like clean chips of diamond overhead. Bucky lets his eyes flare as he rises and joins his friend, stares out into the night as Clint leases his arrows in quick, steady succession. 

A bullseye, every one. 

The man knows his craft, sees things with his human eyes that even Bucky can't. 

It makes trusting him easier, not with weapons or with Kate, but with the rest. 

Bucky never would have tried for it himself, never would have tried for friends, or even casual acquaintences, never would have tried for Steve. 

It might be hard, awkward and uncomfortable to sit back while Clint trots him around town like some kind of prized puppy on a leash, but he trusts him, expects that something good will have to come of it. 

It's why he knows Clint will be ok, that no matter what happens with Coulson it won't change who he is. The archer's got a heart of gold despite everything he's been through, and if he weren't Bucky's brother by sweat and blood and tears he'd probably be in love with him by now. 

He likes it better this way. 

What he and Clint allow each other is safe and solid and heartfelt, and he knows Clint will always come when he calls. 

If by life or death or something in between Bucky can do the same, that's what he's going to do. 

He doesn't speak – he's never been big on that sappy, mushy shit – but he does squeeze Clint's shoulder as he passes, heading back down the fire ladder over the side. He's worked hard today and earned his rest, earned the hot shower that will help with the ache in his dead shoulder and in the hollow of his dead chest. In his room he stays stripped to his boxer shorts, cranks the air conditioning as high as it will go and sets his alarm for five. 

That night he dreams of a warrior-woman, and the raptor bird that circles high above her head.


	14. Chapter 14

Clint doesn’t sleep well that night. 

Doesn't really sleep at all. 

By the time Bucky starts moving around the apartment the next morning he's practically ready to get up and start pacing around the guest room. The settled calm from yesterday had fled him with a vengeance after his conversation with the vampire the night before, and not even calling up the memory of that incredible, impossible hug with the Sheriff did anything to help. 

There was a gap in him, a missing piece ever since Natasha left. 

Later he would come to understand why she had done it, intellectually at least. 

Doesn't mean it's stopped hurting, even now, years later. 

Bucky may have been her beau, her lover, her heart, but Clint had been her spirit, her soul, her _Valvren._

Tradition saw ravens accompany the Valkyrie into battle – Natasha had chosen a hawk. 

They'd known she would have to leave them one day, but they'd been sure she was say goodbye. 

Clint chokes down a bowl of cereal for breakfast and it's a good thing he doesn't taste a bite of it because the Lucky Charms are gone and all that's left is Bucky's gross, adult-flavored, healthy cereal. He's pretty sure normally it would taste like responsibility and tax returns, and why does the guy even have it anyway? He's on edge and he's got time so he tugs on his sweats and goes for a run, heading out in the opposite direction he'd taken the day before. He doesn't think he can take another encounter with sweater-clad Phil Coulson, singing Frank Sinatra to his little goat herd. He thinks he'd do something stupid if he did, like kiss the man or... or _kiss_ him. 

But Coulson's a classy son of a bitch – Clint could at least buy him dinner first. 

That's what he's thinking about two hours later, when he's looped back to the garage. They'd kind of talked about it, hinted at it, and Coulson seemed like maybe he'd say yes if Clint asked, but all he can think is that dinner seems way too intimate, his brain conjuring up ideas of hushed restaurants with candles on all the tables. They'd joked about breakfast but that seemed even worse, something you cooked for your lover the morning after before they had a chance to wake up and sneak out the door. Lunch seemed safer but more like something you'd do when you're scrambling for time, each of them squeezing it in when work permitted, and this... 

This was stupid. 

Dropping down to the cement floor, Clint tried to clear his mind of silly thoughts, pumped out a dozen sets of push-ups and a dozen more of ab-crunches in the process. Bucky ignores him the entire time, scoots underneath the truck he's got up on the blocks, old swing music playing over the garage's speakers, and Clint thinks that's maybe for the best too. 

Nat's always a sore spot between them, and maybe they aren't jealous, maybe she hasn't made them hate each other, but the sound of her name still rubs them both the wrong way, gets their hackles up. 

Eventually Clint leaves him to it, runs upstairs and showers before grabbing his handgun and some extra ammo, some paper targets. Coulson will want to see him work with a gun, no doubt - standard procedure for any kind of law enforcement gig. The bow, his bow, his pride and joy, _that_ he'll carry down as well, but he'll keep it safe in its case, whether for the big reveal or something else he isn't sure. By the time he quits waffling about the whole idea and kicks himself in the butt hard enough to get back down the stairs, Coulson's already arrived, speaking with Bucky near the bay doors as he happily pockets Lola's keys. 

It's kind of cute how much he loves that car, plain as day for anyone to see. 

"Mornin' boss," he grins as he steps up to Coulson on a jog. "Ready to see something that'll blow your mind?" 

Bucky snorts and rolls his eyes, which causes the man to blush a deep pink, but before Clint can smack the vamp he's sidling away, rolling back under his truck without a word. 

"Don't mind him," he says easily, aware of the awkward discomfort coming from the druid. "He's in a mood." 

Truthfully it makes him a little anxious – makes him wonder if he's misread things or if maybe the man is still in the closet and not looking for a visible relationship – but he's happy enough that the guy relaxes just a little. 

Making a dramatic, sweeping gesture, Clint points him toward the door, earning a chuckle and a small grin as Coulson steps out the back door toward the small year cleared behind the garage, turning to look back when Clint grabs his bow case. He raises an eyebrow curiously but Clint just shakes his head, moves to stand slightly behind and to the left of where Clint sets himself up. There are paper targets set at ten, twenty, and forty yards out into the trees, and as he takes up the stance he's most comfortable with and slides the first clip into his pistol, he looks back over his shoulder. 

"What's the standard for law enforcement up here?" he asks with a cocky smirk, and is surprised when Phil's face goes soft and he leans back casually against the picnic bench Bucky's welded out of scrap. 

"You were a Gunnery Sergeant Clint, and a sniper," he says casually, like he hadn't learned that bit of information eavesdropping. His posture is loose and his hands are in the pockets of his slacks but Clint can still see that he's just a tiny bit nervous, probably that he'll be called on it. Nodding toward the gun in his hand, he offers him a smile. "I have absolutely no illusions that you can't handle that, and likley outshoot anyone I know. This isn't an audition." 

Clint blinks, a little surprised, but he thinks he hides it well. 

"What is it then?" he asks, and the smile he's offered this time is slow and sultry and makes something warm unfurl low in his belly. 

"A chance for you to show off," Phil smirks, and then he's straightening up off the table with a sinful roll of his hips and sauntering forward with a confidence Clint hasn't seen on him before. 

Holy hell. 

"Well Barton?" he says silkily, slipping up beside him. "Impress me." 

And well _that_ he can do. 

Grinning wolfishly, Clint turns back to the target and set his feet, smoothly and steadily raised his pistol to target height but is stopped before he can squeeze off a round. 

"Wait," Phil says quietly, so as not to spook him, one hand raised just inside Clint's peripheral vision. Turning, he cocks and eyebrow but Phil just lifts the other so that he's practically framing Clint's face. "May I?" 

"Um, may you what?" he asks, eyes flicking between his palms, suddenly nervous even though all he can really think is that maybe Phil's asking to kiss him, to grab him hard and crush their mouths together and he is _so_ ok with that. 

"A spell," Phil says, hands drooping a bit like he's just realized what he's asked. "Just... it's protection, for your ears. I... I already did mine, I just... sorry." 

Suddenly pink-cheeked awkward Phil is back and he's just so adorable Clint can't help a grin, even as Phil's backing up, putting space between them again. Reaching out with his free hand he snags the man's wrist and is immediately flooded by that incredible sweeping sensation of being taken off his feet, that most amazing high he gets from the way this man's aura reaches out to curl and twine together with his own. It draws a gasp from both of them, just as strong as ever, and the heat that was simmering in the pit of his stomach leaps and sparks, gasoline on coals. 

Swallowing hard, he gathers all his self-control and unlocks his fingers, releases his grip, surprised when the action draws a pained whimper from the druid in front of him. They both blush, take a step back to restablish the space that had disappeared between them before clearing their throats and brushing the moment off. 

" 'S ok," Clint says, making a vague gesture near his left ear. "Just, I'm... I'm kinda... deaf." 

For a moment Phil stares at him, blinks, and a slow dread starts to creep up Clint's legs, flooding his belly with ice water when a smile breaks across Phil's face and he begins to laugh. 

Clint goes numb and feels his face shutter, but Phil shakes his head and grabs his arm, hangs on to him tight enough that he can't jerk away, even as he continues to laugh. 

"No, no," he hiccoughs, "Just... oh my gods, Pepper is _so_ pissed!" 

As fast as the dread and horror comes it goes again, leaving Clint feeling just a little guilty about what he'd thought, but it doesn't last. Half a minute later he's laughing right along with the man, smiling over the silliness of it all until the druid manages to catch his breath and stand up straight again. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he huffs, wiping his eyes. "I don't mean to make fun, but... oh you should have seen her face after you left the bar the other night." 

"It's ok," Clint shrugs, far more at ease than he'd been a moment ago. "I've gotten worse reactions. She do that a lot? Sing, I mean." 

"No, not often," Phil admits. "She doesn’t enjoy taking away someone's free will. Usually she only uses her voice to... mitigate Stark." 

"That I can understand." 

"You don't know the half of it," Phil grumbles. 

"But you can, if you want," Clint says suddenly, and Phil blinks at the sudden change of topic, looks taken aback when he realizes what Clint means. 

"Are you sure? You don't have to – I know what it... what it means." 

Clint bites his lips but nods firmly, resolutely. 

Phil's right – allowing someone to put a spell on you, any kind of spell, it takes a lot of trust, and really what does Clint know about this man at all. 

What he sees, what he feels... 

It's enough. 

Licking his lips, Phil nods back and raises his hands, doesn't touch but comes pretty damn close. Murmuring a few words that Clint wouldn't understand even if he _did_ have perfect hearing, he makes a symbol in the air in front of him and then steps back, his eyes fluttering shut before he opens them again. Clint isn't expecting much, not when his ears are already shot, so he's surprised when he feels the man's magic settle against his skin, press against him like a gentle rush of warm water before dissipating and trickling away. 

Nodding once, Phil steps back and Clint turns to face his targets.

**AVAVA**

Bucky's still underneath Mack's pickup when he hears the 'Vette start up in the bay next to him and slowly back out of the garage. He waits until the engine's deep rumble fades away before rolling out from beneath it, met by Clint's silhouette where he's leaning against the door with his hands in his pockets, staring off after the car. He hadn't counted the shots being fired out behind the garage, he hadn't, hadn't jumped so hard he'd dropped his wrench when the first one went off, hadn't flinched at every one that followed.

Fuck he hated this, when his PTSD crept up on him out of nowhere, after month's of doing just fine, of being _normal,_ or at least as close to normal as he could get. 

It wasn't fair. 

He'd gone so far as to turn his back on Kate, the one person wh'd made him feel at home here in an effort to keep this shit at bay, the nightmares and the reactivity, and it's still chasing after him, hell hounds nipping at his heels. 

His ire's up, he wants to fight, and he wonders if he asked if Clint could get his head in the game long enough to spar with him. 

If the lovelorn sigh he heaves and the moony look on his face is any judge, chances aren't all that good. 

Rolling his eyes, Bucky grabs the remote off his rolling toolbox and jabs at the power button, hard enough that the plastic creaks in his metal hand before the stereo cuts off. 

"Well?" he asks gruffly when Clint turns to look at him over his shoulder. "Didn't convince him to jump you with displays of raw male power?" 

He learns everything he needs to know when Clint doesn't scoff or sneer at him, just sighs again like a damned teenager. 

"His boss called," he mumbles, staring up the road. "The warlock? Didn't even get the bow out." 

"Heard your Sig," Bucky argues. 

Clint shrugs, the pistol still snug beneath his arm in its holster. 

"Yeah. Wasn't bad, just..." 

"Not as impressive as the bow," he finishes for him. 

Now it's his turn to sigh as he finds a rag on his work bench, wipes the grease from his hands. 

"He wants me to come into town, show him. Fury too." 

"And you're waiting for what?" 

Bucky's back is to him as he finishes clearning up his hands but the silence, the quiet that he's met with unsettles him, makes the sixth sense of his breed sit up and take notice. 

"You ever get the feeling somethin's happening way too easy?" 

Bucky scoffs, feels his eyes flare and his teeth go sharp in his mouth. 

Of course he knows that feeling, of course Clint knows that. 

They've walked into enough traps together to know, set enough traps together to know. 

"You ever think our lives are shit, maybe we deserve some easy?" he counters, and Clint laughs. 

"Sure, but we're both smarter than that right?" 

"One of us anyway," Bucky grumbled. "Come on, I'll walk you up there. Wanna spar anyway." 

"Oh thank god!" Clint groans. "I'm dying here, I'm gonna start getting fat if I don't jitter out of my skin first. Seriously, no gym, what do you people do up here?" 

"Whole lotta weird shit," Bucky huffs, grabbing the bay door and pulling it down, closing up the garage. "Hunts, magic, _softball games..._ " 

Clint chuckles as Bucky spits out that last bit like it's the worst thing he's ever heard, like the guy didn't grow up playing shit baseball in the streets of Brooklyn using pallet boards for ball bats. 

"Sounds like fun," he shrugs as they climb the stairs to the loft. "Very cute, very small town." 

Bucky doesn't answer, just splits off to his room and digs up his old tac suit. It's all black and leather, straps and shining buckles, the left sleeve missing to expose the gleaming steel of his arm. There's a reason he was called Winter Soldier, all hard and sharp and cold. It fits him, slips on easy and settles across his shoulders like he'd never taken it off, and as crooked and twisty as his vampire reflection is in the mirror, he still looks more like himself than he can remember in a very long time. 

He looks dangerous, and he loves it. 

He meets Clint back in the living room and isn't surprised to see that he's changed into his own tac suit as well. More black and leather, dark purple accents, straps and buckles and holsters for guns and knives and god knows what else. He's left it all behind, just his favorite bow strapped to his back, the fancy one that folds down small and converts to a deadly staff. He's got his good quiver too, and all those stupid fake arrows of his and he's laced into the same pair of heavy shit-kickers Bucky himself is wearing. 

Looks like Bucky isn't the only one spoiling for a little rough and tumble. 

"Come on," he growls, pocketing his keys and heading for the door. "Tell your Sheriff we'll meet him at the field in fifteen – we're walking." 

"Not mine," Clint grumbles petulantly, his scent full of the sour-candy sharpness of pouting, but his phone's already in his hand. "What field?" 

"You'll see. Somebody cleared the space, up behind Thor's. Just a big empty field - that’s your gym." 

"Something to be said for ingenuity I suppose." 

"Whatever you say." 

They end up getting there in ten minutes instead of fifteen – they're both more accustomed to a steady jog from their military days that the slow, steady plod of a meandering walk is hard to maintain. They don't talk – Clint's too busy smiling stupidly at his phone to pay attention – but when they near the gaming field Bucky can’t hold back the damned twitches anymore and shoulder checks him hard before bolting up the incline toward the clearing. Clint comes tearing after him ready to do battle, but they both coming skidding to a halt in the grass as they clear the treeline and catch sight of what's waiting for them. 

Clint blinks, his mouth slightly agape before his face shutters and he turns to hiss at Bucky under his breath. 

"What the hell?"


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for sparring, a nose being broken, bleeding, and being set.

"The whole fucking _town's_ here," Bucky says, awe and irritation warring in his voice, and Clint turns on him with wide, wild eyes. " _Jesus_." 

"What did you _do_?" Clint hisses. "What did _I_ do?" 

The vampire wasn't exaggerating – the gaming field is the size of two football fields, cleared and leveled and obviously well tended to, and there's a good hundred people lining the edges if not more, sitting on blankets under the trees, milling around tossing flying discs and baseballs, standing in clustered groups chatting and pretending they're not waiting for something, men, women, and children alike. It's disconcerting, hits Clint like a freight train, even harder than it had that first night when he'd stepped into the bar. It's like a hundred different voices in his head, like everyone is shouting at him at the same time, and he quickly slips on his special shades, turns down the volume on his hearing aids. 

Bucky looks at him in question, well aware of how easily Clint's senses are overwhelmed, just as delicate as his own and sometimes even more so. 

Clint shrugs, scowls, doesn't respond. 

Fuck, this was _not_ what he was hoping for. It's not like he doesn't know how to perform for a crowd – hello, ex-carnie here – but damn it, he... 

"I am _so_ sorry." 

Clint turns calmly, aware that he was being approached from behind by the way Bucky's eyes had flicked a pointed glance over his shoulder, but suddenly he's not exactly sure how he feels about the druid who's appeared by his side at the moment. It's petulant, he's pouting, he knows that, but come _on_. He's not a sideshow anymore. 

"I had _no idea_ they would all show up like this Clint," the man says, his aura swirling around him anxiously. It makes him think of old-fashioned ladies, the way they would wring their hands together inside dainty sitting rooms and he almost barks a laugh. 

"I was talking to Fury and Stark overheard..." Coulson explains. "He must have put word out somehow." 

"Stark," Bucky growls, turning sharply but Clint grabs him by the arm and holds him back. 

"So what?" he says, blatantly playing dumb. "We're not that interesting." 

The man just stares. 

"You're joking right?" he snorts, disbelieving. "The vampire and the newcomer, the one no one can figure out, who knows things he shouldn't and got through the SHIELD even though he's human? You showed up right after a girl went missing; you do realize that as far as this town is concerned you're the top two suspects in her disappearance?" 

"And as far as you're concerned?" 

Coulson, _Phil_ , blinks and then gives Clint a long, slow look, from the toes of his boots to the top of his head, lingering on his thighs, his belts and buckles, his arms and the breadth of his chest. 

"As far as I'm concerned you're here as a fully contracted consultant to the Sheriff," he says. "And you look pretty damn good doing it." 

Clint feels heat sweep through his body, knows he's preening a little bit when he hears Bucky scoff beside him. He looks good like this, hot, dangerous, but he's surprised the Sheriff's being so blunt about it. True, he's blushing a little bit, but it's nice to know the man appreciates the view regardless. He takes a step forward, intentional, aggressive, but the druid holds his ground, and Clint feels a purr rising up from deep in his chest. He might've grabbed him, finally kissed him right there in front of god and everyone as their auras sparked and crackled around them if Bucky hadn't shifted, crossed his arms over his chest and growled darkly. Phil shoots him a glance, nods in a way that seems... formally respectful before clearing his throat and speaking again. 

"I _will_ have to bring you in for questioning," he informs the vampire reluctantly, "But Barnes I hope you know that I wouldn't have sought your help if I thought you had anything to do with Miss Bishop's disappearance." 

"Whatever," Bucky growls between clenched teeth before snatching his wrist out of Clint's grasp. "Thought we were here to spar?" 

As the vampire stalks off Phil seems to shrink, to collapse in on himself as if he thinks it's his fault Bucky is in a mood and that consequently he's upset Clint. Any irritability he felt for the druid is gone as suddenly as it came and the toe-curling consequences of touching the man don't seem to matter so much if he can just reassure him a little bit. Phil's wearing a linen jacket in a pale khaki color, the material thick and sturdy, so when Clint touches his wrist he doesn't get quite the world-sweeping swoosh he gets from skin-to-skin contact but he can still feel it, the heavy tingle of attraction in his belly and the low, dull hum of adrenaline along his nerves. Phil must feel it too because his pupils open up and his tongue sneaks out to wet his lips as he wavers slightly in Clint's direction, his breath coming fast and shallow. 

"We're gonna go warm up," Clint says, his voice thick in his throat as he jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "Might as well give 'em all a show right?" 

"You don't have to play to them," Phil frowns, "Especially Stark." 

"Nah, don't worry about it," Clint shrugs, unable to hold back a grin as he pulls his bow over his shoulder, snaps it into shape and strings it with one practiced move. He can feel the impressed attentiveness rolling off the druid, can feel his eyes on him and he loves it. "I can handle Stark." 

"I don’t doubt it," Phil murmurs as Clint's fingers play over the grip of his bow, rack an arrow into his quiver. "But it looks like you've already lost your sparring partner." 

Clint huffs a laugh, tosses Phil a wink, and knocks. Bucky has stalked halfway across the field and is still going, and as he pulls back the string and aims for a spot just over the vampire's shoulder he can see a sudden burst of emotion, sparks of color from the corner of his eye – anxiety, fear, even a little anger. 

"Ever seen a boomerang arrow?" 

"Wait, _what_..." 

He looses the arrow anyway. 

Coulson tries to stop its flight, immediately launches into a spell that he mutters rapidly under his breath and Clint gets it, he does, but really, a little trust please? Like he'd actually shoot his best friend. Well, he would, but that's kind of beside the point. Anyway, the arrow's too fast for the druid and goes blitzing past Bucky's ear before he's even gotten two syllables out. The vampire stops in his tracks, spins on his heel and snarls, and Clint knows what he's thinking too. 

_What the hell Barton?_

Clint smirks because _bitch please_. Taking two steps to the left he watches the arrow's flight and sees it turn in midair, double over and hurtle back towards him. This time it clips Bucky on the other side and he laughs, can't help himself, even as the arrow continues on its path back toward him. 

"That's it, come to papa," he purrs, and the arrow abruptly slows, the command phrase causing it to slam on the brakes and bury itself in the earth neatly between Clint's feet. Crouching, he pulls it from the ground and spins it neatly between his fingers, casting Phil a cocky grin. 

"Boomerang arr-ooph!" 

Bucky hits him like a Mac truck, the bastard. Just loves ruining a moment. If Clint didn't know better he'd think the guy was jealous, but he's dealt with Bucky-in-a-mood before so he knows how to handle him too. 

Hit back, and hit back harder. 

Executing a neat tuck-and-roll, Clint bounces to his feet, grins at the vampire and gives the bow a twirl, folding it back down to a staff and jamming one end into the soft soil of the field. He slips the strap of his quiver over his head and hangs it from the staff as Bucky begins to circle him slowly, feels like prey and knows that's what the crowd is seeing, knows that's what Coulson is seeing. 

Oh how cute. 

Bucky makes the first move, he always does. They've been doing this so long, facing off against each other, practicing with each other that it's more like a dance more than anything, knowing exactly when and where and how your partner will move. He can tell the vampire's still pissy when his first jab misses its mark, a light pop against Bucky's ribs as he ducks the fist aimed for his head. What follows is the kind of fight he loves, down and dirty, close quarters, hand-to-hand combat that's so different from what he does as a sniper that it never fails to keep him on his toes. The crowd watches all around them, Coulson standing next to the warlock Fury several yards away with their arms crossed, analytical where everyone else is horrified and curious and unable to look away. 

Clint doesn't pay them any attention – he doesn't have the time. Bucky's throwing everything he has at him and he's ducking and spinning and throwing back punches as quickly as he can just hoping to keep up. He's doing a pretty damn good job of it too, even if he _is_ having to employ a lot more flashy gymnastics than he normally would. Yeah, he likes to show off, wants to even, but sparring, really sparring the way he does with Buck is about efficiency and making sure you don't get your head slapped off your shoulders. The somersaults and the cartwheels are meant to save himself the bruises, though they only go so far. 

Bucky slams him onto his back, the wind whumping out of his chest as his skeleton is jarred inside his body, and he only just manages to get the air back into his lungs before he's pummeled. Tucking his knees up to his chest, he plants his boots against Bucky's ribs and uses the vampire's own momentum against him, kicks him up and over his head and sends him sailing, but it only affords him half a second's reprieve. By the time he's curled himself up to his feet Bucky's back and swinging, catches him off-balance and pops him a good one right square in the nose. 

He hears the crunch, feels the gush of warm and wet down his face and a collective gasp goes up around them, the town taking a step back like they expect the vampire to go berserk over a little bit of blood. 

Yeesh. 

"Dammit, _ow_ ," he complains, his hands over his face. 

The vampire's standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, all but tapping his foot in impatience, the picture of calm. Clint's nose is throbbing but experience says it's best to set it now, so he puts both thumbs on either side of the bridge of his nose and crunches it back into place, glaring at Bucky and snarling through the ruby red that's dribbling down his chin. 

See? 

No rabid freak out. 

"You're not even trying," Clint accuses loudly, drawing confusion and just a tiny bit of guilt from the crowd as he wipes his hands on his thighs. 

Bucky scoffs, tosses his head. 

"Why waste the effort?" he sniffs. 

"Oh bite me." 

He knows then that Bucky's willing to play his game because he snarls and shifts instantly, his claws going long and thin and sharp, his jaw unhinging as his fangs grow and he snaps them in Clint's direction, his eyes gleaming and golden. Clint laughs, full and happy and totally at ease, blows the vamp a kiss. Turning, he runs full tilt back at Phil, notes that even he and Fury have taken a step back from Bucky's full-form but doesn't have time to shake his head. Grabbing his bowstaff, he uses it to sling his body around and pole vault back over Buck as he lunges. They both get in a few more punches, tossing in some varied martial arts moves for the hell of it as Clint attempts to beat him into submission with the staff, but then Bucky takes a swipe at him and slices clean through the leather of his tac vest, sweeping up his chest and landing three neat little lines across his bare arm. 

Oooo, not nice. 

He likes that vest.

It's the work of a moment to have his bow open again, to duck-and-tumble and call and arrow up from his quiver and have it strung. Bucky's running at him and he doesn't want to do it, he doesn't, but... 

Yeah no, he totally does. 

The putty arrow explodes at Bucky's feet and the vampire snaps back like an old-fashioned child's bopping bag. He only just manages to keep his balance by pinwheeling his arms, his boots eaten up by the thick, sticky, purple-colored goop. It's tar-like qualities have the man well and truly stuck and Clint's nearly bent double snickering by the time he really catches his balance and turns on him with a deadly calm stare. 

"Clinton," he says sweetly, back behind his human face though his eyes still gleam like amber, "What am I standing in?" 

"Uh, heh, well it's not grape-flavored sticky putty," Clint chuckles innocently, rubbing the back of his neck. "That would just... well, that would just be silly." 

"Clinton." 

"Yeah buddy?" 

"Come here," he purrs, crooking his finger, even as Clint shakes his head vehemently, "And pull me out of this, immediately." 

Flicking a quick glance to his left, he mentally pats himself on the back for sticking Bucky so close to their most important onlookers and grins. 

"Sorry Buck, no can do," he sing-songs before curling his arms up in a classic strong-man pose and flexing his biceps. "You'll have to ask the super-soldier; he's got bigger muscles." 

Bucky narrows his eyes, hisses a nasty threat in Russian but behind him Coulson is choking on his tongue and beside him Steve is startling like Clint's given him an electric jolt and it's all just too funny. Oh it's awful and it's horrible and he'll feel guilty about it later, but it's just so damn fun... 

"I'm gonna murder you, punk," Bucky snarls, and Clint laughs as he turns away. 

"Your call buddy. Tell you what, if you're still here round five I'll swing by with a jar of peanut butter." 

"Peanut butter and jelly?" Phil asks as Clint reaches his side, Bucky still snarling and thrashing around behind him and the crowd slowly letting out a collective breath, slowly starting to move and murmur once again now that the violence is over. 

Clint cocks an eyebrow in question, unsure, but Phil just jerks his chin over Clint's shoulder. 

"Why _is_ your silly putty grape-flavored?" he asks, and Clint barks a laugh as the joke clicks. "Why do you even _have_ a silly putty arrow? For that matter, why do you have a _boomerang_ arrow?" 

" 'Cause Coulson, _boomerang_ ," he replies by way of answer, bumping the man's shoulder companionably. "Comes in handy more often than you'd think." 

"Yes, well, color me impressed," he murmurs, and Clint is more than a little proud that the man's gaze is lingering on his arms and his shoulders, distinctly lower than his eyes. 

Pleased as punch actually. 

It's the adrenaline, he knows that – he always runs hot after a fight, even a friendly one – but damn if he doesn't want to grab this man, to take and be taken and devour him, swallow him down and satiate the hunger burning in his veins, to find out where that spark could really take them. He sees an answering hunger in Coulson's eyes, sees it snapping green and bright in the air around him, but then the druid's looking over his shoulder and raising and eyebrow, looking surprised and distinctly uncomfortable. 

"Seems like they've come in handy here too." 

Confused, Clint turns, only to find that Steve's managed to yank Bucky out of the putty and onto his own feet again. Unfortunately the vampire's still scowling, staring down at his tacky, putty-covered boots and ready to bolt, and Clint can only manage a heavy sigh. 

"Tell me about it," he mutters, drawing one more time. 

Bucky's gonna owe him one hell of a favor after this – he's burning through trick arrows like nothing – but no way in hell is he going to let the man turn tail and run from a perfect opportunity like this one. 

The bolo arrow catches the vamp in the small of his back and sends him staggering forward, wraps him and Steve up tight like sardines in a can. One or the other of them yelps, their arms pinned to their sides as they go toppling over, and well hell, that's about as close as they're going to get. Clint gives them a minute, snickering as Bucky fights to roll them over and get on top before giving up. 

Some things never change. 

"Barton!" the vampire snarls, and Clint slowly saunters over, noting with pleasure that Steve doesn't seem overly alarmed by his situation. 

"Sorry 'bout that guys, dunno what happened," he simpers dumbly and Bucky growls. 

"Bull _shit_ asshole," he hisses between sharp teeth, "You _never_ miss." 

"Course I never miss," Clint snorts, crouching down to release them. "Don'tcha know who I am? I'm the..." 

Clint blinks, trails off as something in the crowd catches his eye, something at the other end of the field listing between the onlookers. 

" _Kate_ ," he breathes, and he hears Bucky curse under his breath, but the vamp'll forgive him this time. Shooting to his feet, Clint slings his bow back over his shoulder and takes off across the field. "Hey _Kate!_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://houseofgeekery.files.wordpress.com/2012/11/vamps.jpg - Here's a pic of what an American Vampire looks like. This is Skinner Sweet, drawn by Raphael Albuquerque. Seriously guys, go read it. It's soooo good.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4UHygLTguk0&spfreload=5 - Also, OMG!! Jeremy Renner did an PSA for Feeding America that could totally be Hawkeye. If you need a reason to make a donation before tax write-off season, this is it.


	16. Chapter 16

Steve is a good guy. 

At least he's always tried to be. 

He's never liked bullies, not even when he was young and scrawny and physically incapable of taking on the bad guys he found himself antagonizing at every turn. He'd been naive and idealistic back then, sure he could do better, do more if he were only a little better, a little more himself. It was that naivete and idealism that found him strapped to a lab table, patient zero of an experimental serum, AIM's solution to the 'inhuman plague.' 

Ironic no? 

Luckily he'd seen through the propaganda, a little late but not too late, and had gotten the hell out of there before they could fully indoctrinate him into their 'army,' before they could find a way to control what they'd created and turn him to his intended purpose – marching for the Anti Inhuman Movement and hunting down anyone not entirely human, anyone just a little bit different. 

It's what he's made for now, and he quietly hates that Tony calls him Cap. 

Only he wishes it weren't, and thinks that maybe that's enough. 

He runs. 

Walks, jogs, hitchhikes, tries to learn his new body and what it can do, what it can't. Eventually he stumbles on a loud-mouthed engineer and his girlfriend at the outskirts of a large city tucked into the shadow of a long, narrow mountain range, and the next thing he knows he's been shown to a tiny town in the hills, a small community, a safe place. He can't remember getting there, can't remember how it happened, but he remembers the relief, finally having a place to rest. 

It's an entirely new world for Steve, Downer's Hollow. It's a sense of community that he's never been a part of before, everyone drawn together by a common thread, the fact that they're all something different, something more. He meets people, makes friends, stays close with Tony and Pepper and knows all of his neighbors. He finds a place as the town reporter and photographer, works with Fury and with Coulson, and knows the man is attracted to him. As a professional Phil is impressive and competent and the linchpin to all that holds their home together, keeps them safe behind the SHIELD, but personally? 

He's a bit uncertain. 

One would think that Steve might identify with that, be much the same himself. 

Oddly enough, one would be wrong. 

Steve's spent his life making up for his size, his weaknesses, being loud and bold and more confident than he has any right to be. It takes a certain spunk to be as stupid as he was, or a certain kind of death wish. 

He makes it work. 

It's not that he thinks Coulson's any type of nancy, or even unattractive. He suspects the right person could really bring the macho out of the man, he just doesn't think he's that person. Coulson's never approached him, never flirted, only watched from a distance, and that's not what he's looking for. 

Not that he's... looking. 

He's not, he's told himself that. 

But then his bike had broken down, and he met James Barnes in person for the first time. 

He's hot, Steve admitted that to himself at the very beginning. There was just no getting around the fact, especially now that Steve's got the stamina to actually get it up. Barnes hits a lot of his buttons, and not just in the 'well-built brunette' department. 

He's... dangerous. 

There's a strength to him, a darkness, a threat that Steve is drawn to, that he hadn't been before the serum. 

Barnes looks like he could keep up. 

It's a thrill, attraction on an instinctual level, and Steve might not have pursued him based solely on that fact – wanting him so much is a huge red flag given that he doesn't know anything about that man, only that he's a vampire and morose as bear just out of hibernation. 

But... 

He's strangely sweet too. 

Steve suspects he's the only one that knows that side of Barnes. He'd seen him once, with Kate up on the mountain, walking up the trail toward his garage. The young girl had been bouncing along at his side, chattering a mile a minute, and it was damn clear that Barnes wanted nothing to do with her. If he'd turned and walked away from Steve like that, his shoulders high and tight, he would've let him go, too smart to poke at him, but not Kate. She'd laughed, followed at his heels like a puppy, and then when he'd turned and snarled at her, leapt forward and grabbed him up in a hug. Barnes had stood there in apparent shock, his arms out to his sides almost like he'd been afraid to touch her, to hold her. Eventually he'd patted her back twice, awkward and hesitant, and she'd laughed again and let him go but Steve had been... struck by the scene. 

Sweetness, and dare he say a tenderness too. 

Potentially even loneliness. 

Steve had seen it, known it, and yet nothing changed. 

As a 'blood breed,' a creature so parasitic in its base nature, Barnes is the outcast of their society, tolerated or ignored at best, hated and harassed at worst. The man had no friends, was barely acknowledged outside of his business, talked about behind his back and dealt with in an atmosphere of suspicion and disgust. 

Steve had seen it, and he'd done nothing but oggle him from a distance. 

Maybe he's not such a good guy. 

Hell maybe he's got more in common with Coulson than he thought. 

Then Clint Barton shows up and _everything_ changes. 

It's ridiculous really, how it happens. He storms in, entirely human, loud, brash, laughing, all sunshine and blonde hair and smiles, and if he hadn't set off everyone's alarm bells from the very start he'd have had them all falling at his feet. He's a force, an anomaly, and he heads straight for Barnes. 

Steve watches right along with everyone else, Tony and Pepper and Coulson, the entire town as the man pokes at the vampire, teases him, touches him, laughs with him, and not only does it make Steve feel guilty as hell it makes him feel rather foolish as well. There laws are different here, yes, but what could Barnes have done? Assaulted someone, _murdered_ someone? 

Stupid. 

He hasn't gotten word of the vampire feeding off of anyone, so he must not need to feed all that much to survive either – logic suggests he wouldn't need to kill anyone during the process. 

Besides, the man _has_ a soul, a conscience just like anyone else, no matter what AIM would have the world believe. 

A sense of humor too, now that Barton's here. 

Steve watches the man open up before his eyes, laugh, _smile_ , swagger around and actually show some emotion, and hell if he isn't just getting hotter. The night he'd come into the bar in a leather jacket and boots, surprising them all by ordering dinner and _playing_ with Barton, Steve had nearly swallowed his tongue. 

Damn. 

Just... damn. 

He would've said something that night, would've made a move if it weren't for Tony and Pepper, for Barton, for Coulson. 

Barnes was actually taking a step towards being welcome, having friends, and it didn't seem fair or right to intrude on that. 

Didn't seem fair or right to skip that step, to proposition the man when he'd never even really spoken to him for. 

And hell if that didn't make Steve just feel like an absolute shit. 

He ended up chastising Tony, snapping at him, giving them all a scolding speech he had no right to give, then acting like a dork the next day in the Sheriff's office. Barton – Clint – seemed to know something he didn't, seemed to see right through him and he hated him a little bit for it, but there was jealousy and shame there too so he didn't say anything. He'd gone back to his office that afternoon and stared at his computer screen, his mind preoccupied by plans on how to approach the vampire, how to express interest in a way that doesn't seem like he just wants a quick fuck. 

Coffee, maybe, or lunch, since now he knows that the man eats actual food. 

The guilt still lingers, and it doesn't help that he's supposed to be focusing on a piece about Kate. He puts thoughts of Bucky (and it _is_ Bucky now, not Barnes) aside until he gets it done, until he's satisfied. He owes that much to the young girl who's gone missing. Once he's finished he packs up and goes home, doesn't fall asleep for a long time thinking about the vampire, the teenager, or the fact that he'd seen the two together and what that might mean. 

He's put it behind him the next day. He gets up and does his workout, showers, dresses, and heads for his little office above the post. He does his job, gets his report ready to print after having gotten the go-ahead from Coulson, and then finds himself doodling a little cartoon of a soldier and a vampire, scratchy penmanship scribbling a joke at the bottom of the page. 

_How do you flirt with a vampire?_

_Bat your eyelashes._

Stupid – everyone knows American Vampires can't turn into a bats. 

He's just stepping out the door onto the walk to head for Tony and Pepper's for lunch when his friend sends him an Emergency SOS text, telling him to get his ass down to the gaming field pronto, and once he gets there he's not sure if he's happy he did or not. The whole damn town is gathered there, pretending like it's normal, and Tony is bouncing on the balls of his feet babbling about how the new guy is coming down to give Fury and Coulson a shooting demonstration and Steve is suddenly really, stupidly angry. 

Barton shouldn't even _be here_ , and everyone knows it. 

At the same time, he's clearly Bucky's friend, the only one he has, and he's the only reason anyone is opening up to Bucky at all. 

It's terrible, how they've treated the vampire without him, and it isn't fair that Steve resents him for invading their little town, stealing the attention both of the man who likes Steve and the man Steve likes. 

He's never felt like such a heel in his life, and it's all Clint Barton's fault. 

Then the two of them come striding into the clearing, stumbling to a dead stop, and he's not really thinking about that anymore. 

Jesus Christ, sex on a stick. 

They both look lickable. 

Biteable? 

They look like soldiers. 

They've been sparring less than three minutes before Steve is pretty sure they are. 

They've said they were of course, sergeant and gunnery sergeant, but hearing it and seeing it are two different things. Dressed in black leather, tac suits clearly custom-made, they fight like men who've seen war, who've lived it, and maybe Steve did do a stint in the US Army before falling for AIM's false promises, maybe he had served among their ranks for weeks before he realized their true plans for him, but it is plain to see that his experiences pale to what these two have been through. 

It's like watching death dancing, the two of them together. There's a give and take that suggests years of intimacy, of trust, and yet neither of them are holding back. They get in good hits, _hurt_ each other, and still keep coming back for more. Then Bucky breaks Barton's nose with a crack that sets the whole town to gasping and flinching, setting their feet to run and it's stupid. 

Barton laughs it off, wipes the blood away with the back of his hand and taunts the vampire, who snarls and shifts and shows his fangs and claws, doing nothing to help his case. The blonde just blows him a kiss. There is no real danger, no real threat, that much is painfully obvious, and he turns to Tony with a heavy heart to say as much, but the engineer is muttering under his breath, scowling at his phone as he puts everything he knows about Barton into his AI system while doing his best not to publicly geek out over the plethora of trick arrows the man seems to have up his sleeve. 

Er, quiver. 

Steve's never seen anything like them – and given that he's friends with Tony Stark that's saying something – and he can't fathom how a boomerang arrow even works, but it's nothing to the one that explodes into a puddle of gummy, purple goop that sticks the vampire to the ground like quicksand. He hears a few snickers go up round the field and gets nervous, but the vampire doesn't pay them any mind, just snarls at his friend and demands to be pulled loose. 

Then Barton's laughing, flexing biceps that rival Steve's own and calling him out, making his heart skip a beat. 

Definitely knows something Steve doesn't then. 

Doesn't seem like such a bad thing, but then Bucky doesn't seem incredibly enthused to have his help. He practically ignores him entirely when he steps tentatively toward him, snarling down at the stringy, sticky putty trapping him and kicking his feet, fighting to get out as he hisses nastily under his breath. Tony had tried to hold him back from the angry vampire, then switched to waggling his eyebrows and nudging him in the ribs when Steve glared, and it was clear that no one else was going to help, not even Clint, who'd gone back to Coulson's side. 

He can smell artificial grape, strong and reminiscent of his childhood and it only pulls him in closer, so close that he doesn't even realize he's about to step into the goop himself until Bucky barks at him to stop. 

"Oh," he says stupidly, blinking down at the toes of his sturdy hiking boots, inches away from suffering the same fate of Bucky's. "Um. Need some help?" 

The vampire goes terribly still, lifts his head and stares at him with dark, narrowed eyes and Steve's breath doesn't catch in it's throat, it _doesn't_. Bucky doesn't answer him, doesn't move, doesn't do anything but stare so Steve sticks out his arm, offers him the assist, and it takes a minute, a few long beats where he doesn't think the guy's gonna accept before he does, before he reaches out and clasps Steve's forearm, flesh hand warm and strong around Steve's elbow and he hauls him out. 

He's surprised how much effort it takes – Barton's putty is good, but he doesn't mind because when Bucky's boots finally break free with a toe-curling sucking sound, the vampire nearly stumbles right into Steve's arms, and he gets a nice feel of his chest trying to steady him. He's thick, strong, solid, and Steve suddenly wonders very much what it would be like to take this man to bed. 

He wonders what happens to his face in that moment because the vampire twitches, very nearly flinches and takes a step back from him, tilts his head a little as a frown wrinkles his forehead before he drops his eyes. Steve's hand comes up of it's own volition, as if to touch him gently on the wrist. 

"Hey listen..." 

He doesn’t get a chance to respond because suddenly the vampire is lunging forward and they're colliding chest to chest, something thin looping round and round their waists binding them tightly together. Steve yips in surprise, one arm pinned against his side and the other wrapping instinctively around the man plastered to his chest, rolls as they fall in an attempt to take the brunt of impact on himself. As soon as his shoulder hits the ground the vampire is fighting to get loose but he's lost the use of both his arms and isn't accomplishing much except squirming all over Steve's front and making things a little bit _harder..._

Shit. 

Steve bites his lip, thinks of ice and frigid, rushing water, and breathes a sigh of relief when the man finally goes still beneath him, wedged underneath Steve's body when a wrenching twist of his hips and a rough kick fails to free him. Going unnaturally still, he tips his head back, snarls at his friend, and Steve suppresses a shudder when he catches a glimpse of the tips of sharp fangs in the vampire's mouth. 

Barton simpers down at them and there's no way Steve doesn't _absolutely_ believe the guy's got some kind of angle now, but he assumes at least the man will cut them free of whatever the hell he'd wrapped them up in. 

You know what they say about assuming. 

Barton freezes, blinks, breathes Kate's name under his breath then leaps up from his crouch, hauling ass down the field shouting her name. 

Steve's dumbfounded, doesn't get it, but Bucky is snarling under his breath and jerking again, and Steve only narrowly avoids taking a knee to a very delicate place. 

"Shit, _shit_!" Bucky hisses, his eyes lighting up a gorgeous amber-gold, and then he's twisting side to side trying to get a better look at the wire holding them together. "Can you move your hands?" 

"Huh? Oh, yeah!" He replies stupidly, lifting the single arm he has free. "I got..." 

"Left thigh," the man barks, and um, yeah, he kinda felt that. 

Kinda hard not to, it's fucking _huge_. 

"Hey listen, I'm uh, glad to see you too," he hedges, startled despite all the fantasizing he's been doing lately. "But I was maybe thinking we could get coffee first..." 

_"What?"_ Bucky growls, shocked and showing his teeth. "You... _No_ , you _idiot_ , it's a _knife!_ Cut us the hell..." 

But he doesn't have to finish. 

Eyes wide, cheeks burning, Steve shoves his hand between them and finds the pocket on the man's thigh, comes up with a knife that's a lot longer than he thinks is probably legal. It takes him a second to open the blade with one hand but he manages, and then it only takes a flick of his wrist to slice through the wire keeping them together. Before he can even take a breath again Bucky's up and across the field, barreling toward Barton who's on his knees in the middle of the road halfway down the hill toward Main Street. His heart is pounding and his mouth is dry and he's wondering what the hell just happened, an expression Tony voices aloud a second later when he's kneeling at Steve's side, dragging him up by the elbow. 

Coulson's headed for the pair at a jog and Fury's barking orders, trying to get all the onlookers moving, and Steve's stuck standing there staring at the folding knife in his hand, wondering why Bucky hadn't just shifted and used his claws, wondering if he was scared to or... nervous. 

It isn't until later, when he's lying in bed trying to sleep, flipping the knife over and over in his hand, that he realizes the vampire never answered him about coffee.


	17. Chapter 17

Clint tears off across the field like the hounds of hell are after him, and he doesn’t really care that the whole damn town is staring at him with something akin to horror. As he shoves and squirms his way through the crowd to the edge of the field, toward the rutted dirt road that leads down to Main Street, he only vaguely registers the looks of shock and confusion and fear on strange, pale faces. 

At least they get out of his way pretty quick. 

"Kate!" he shouts again, and the girl he'd seen lurking along the periphery of the field turns, stares at him with shock and sickly hope, ready to run. "Hey Kate, wait up!" 

"You can..." she says, and her words get caught on the wind, in the sudden, restless murmuring of the crowd, but Clint's always been good at reading lips, at interpreting emotion laid so bare in someone's eyes. "You can see me? I'm... I'm back? You..." 

Then she goes and does the worst thing she can do, turns before Clint can stop her and comes barreling at him like to tackle him to the ground, but she's not back, even if he _can_ see her. 

Kate passes right through him, incorporeal as she is, and he knows she will but he throws his arms up in an attempt to stop her anyway. It's like slipping into a pool, going through the ice over a winter lake, complete and total and _frigid,_ sucking the air out of his lungs and locking up his muscles all in one go, and his knees give out from under him like his strings have been cut. Choking, wheezing, he gasps for air, tries to wave her off like it's no big deal even as she has a mini existential freak-out beside him and his heart tries to quit. 

"Oh my god! Oh my _god!_ What just... how did you... what is _wrong_ with me!" 

It's a half hysterical demand and his heart goes out to her even as it does its best to skip a beat or twelve, jolted by the ghost that's just zapped through his body, in and out like hopscotch. He's met more than a few who don't know what they are yet, haven't realized what's happened to them, and there's only so much reassuring you can do when someone's just walked right through you. He opens his mouth, sucks in a ragged breath in an attempt to calm her when Bucky comes skidding up beside him, and it's only luck that he manages to get a warning out in time. 

"No, _don't!"_

Kate stops on a dime, freezes like his command has tripped some wire in her, her image flickering as she stares at the vampire in fear and desperation. 

"Bucky," she squeaks, and Clint manages to get his hand on the vampire's forearm, to drag himself to his feet and push him back just a little bit, to get himself between the two. 

"Kate, _stop,"_ he gasps, still struggling for air, fighting the cold that's taken up residence at his core. "Listen to me. I didn't want to do it this way and it's not right and it's not fair but you're a _ghost!_ You _have_ to stop." 

"What?" she yelps, eyes wide, staring at Clint like he's completely bonkers and yeah, ok, he gets that. "Are you... are you crazy? I'm not a ghost, if I was a ghost that means I'm..." 

_"Kate."_

She's nearly hyperventilating now, panting as hard as Clint is which is silly given that fact that she doesn't actually need to breathe. She looks sick, terrified, and he gets that too, but he needs her to understand this now before something really bad happens that he can't fix. 

"Listen," he says again, more gently this time, trying to duck in front of her and get her to look at him, even as she shakes her head and backs away. _"Listen._ You saw what just happened. You went right through me Kate. I'm alive – my body can handle that – but Bucky's not and his can't ok? You hear me? He's _dead_ Kate – if you touch him you're going to assume his body and there won't be any of him left." 

"That's _insane,"_ she argues, and maybe she's not trying to rush them anymore but Clint keeps on his toes, stays alert. "Do you _know_ how insane you sound, cause that's just... that's..." 

Glancing over his shoulder, he catches Bucky's eye and shakes his head minutely. 

She doesn't believe him. 

"Kate he's telling the truth," Bucky says, in a voice far gentler than Clint's heard from him in a long time. "You're... Kate you've been missing, for a long time. We can't find you." 

Kate goes still. 

Bucky can't see her, can't hear her, but Clint knows the vampire trusts his eyes absolutely, and he knows too that Bucky senses death, can feel it in his bones and in the pit of his belly. His eyes are gold and roaming over Clint's shoulder, not settling, but that's all it takes, a quiet murmur, a little well-intended attention and the girl goes still, still and quiet and heartbroken. 

"I'm missing," she whispers, he voice cracking halfway through. "I'm... Bucky where am I? What happened to me?" 

"He can't hear you," Clint murmurs apologetically, breaking one more piece of news as gently as possible. "Can't see you either." 

Kate sniffles, hiccoughs, scrubs the back of her wrist across her face, then really looks at him for the very first time. 

"Y,you can?" she stammers. 

"Yeah," he sighs. "We haven't really met yet. I'm Clint." 

Kate bursts into hysterical giggling before slapping her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and horrified. 

"Oh my god," she moans, and Clint actually reaches forward as she crumples to her knees, like he could catch her, ease her fall. "Oh my god." 

"Hey, hey, take it easy," he murmurs, crouching down in front of her. "Breathe." 

"Breathe?" she squeaks indignantly, her head snapping up to stare at him in disbelief. _"Breathe?_ I'm a _ghost,_ do I even _need_ to breathe?! I'm... I'm..." 

Slumping over her own knees, Kate hugs herself tight and goes silent again, the panic and the hysteria abruptly draining away. Clint had expected a blow up, an utter freak-out. Was only fair after all – this was heavy shit. Instead Kate lifts her head, looks at him with pain and quiet dignity. 

"I'm dead aren't I?" 

Clint can only drop his eyes. 

Sucking in a great, heaving sob the young woman begins to cry, and there's virtually nothing he can do. 

"Hey, hey come on," he murmurs, creeping closer on his knees and holding out his hands, palms up. "Don't cry Katie-Cat. It's gonna be ok." 

Clint senses more than sees Bucky stiffen beside him, knows that at least one more person is standing close on his six and he thinks it's Coulson, but he can't spare the brain cells to worry about what he looks like right now. Kate is falling apart in front of him, her shape flickering and fading out, threatening to disappear, and he's not ready for her to go yet, not ready to lose her. 

"Look at me," he urges, crawling as close as he can get and ducking down to catch her eyes. "Come on darlin' look at me. Hey. You want a hug?" 

Kate lifts her head, ghostly tears rolling down her cheeks, staring at him like he's nuts again and wow is he making a great first impression on this girl. 

Well, second impression. 

He expects her to argue since all experience says that no one can see or hear or touch her, that if she tries to touch them bad things happen, but all she does is nod her head miserably and it's relief more than anything that rushes though him. 

"Come're," he murmurs, opening his arms. "Just gotta be careful. Don’t' wanna go all the way through again huh?" 

Her laugh sounds more like choking than anything, but she nods and seems to understand. Very gingerly, she reaches out and waits for Clint to come the rest of the way to wrap himself around her and it's more about seeing her in his arms than feeling it, but she still manages to fit herself against him somehow, tries her best to rest her head on his shoulder. He's freezing where she's pressed against him, the dangerous sting of dry ice sticking to his skin, and he knows somewhere in the back of his head that he looks like an idiot but he doesn't care. He hadn't lied to her – his body could handle this – just... not for very long. It'll fuck him up eventually, not as bad as it would Bucky, but bad enough. 

For now though, for now he can do this for her. 

"You're warm," she mumbles against him and he wishes she were real, that she had a corporeal body he could squeeze reassuringly and hold as she shakes. "Can't feel anything but I can feel you. You're..." 

Shivering, she whimpers, begins to fade. 

"I'm so cold," she whispers, her voice cracking. "Everything's so cold and you're..." 

"Hey Katie, hang on," he interrupts, trying to keep the urgency and the panic from his voice as the lines of her body blur. "Hey focus, yeah? Focus on me, listen to my voice ok? You're alright, you're right..." 

But she's gone. 

"Here." 

Shuddering hard, Clint's whole body shakes as he sucks in a sharp breath, practically a sob. The cold has chilled him straight through, taking up the space around his heart and lungs and twisting through his guts, and he topples forward, hugging his own chest and resting his forehead on the ground, the scent of grass and clean earth strong in his nose. 

"Guh," he moans, turning his head and rocking forward, pushing his cheek into the mud and scrabbling petulantly against the ground with his boots. 

He's going to be sick. 

"Get up." 

"G' way," he grumbles, his eyes closed, swallowing down his nausea as Bucky's cool, metal fingers close around his elbow. 

"You know there's a reason people think you're nuts." 

"Fuck off," he huffs, rolling over onto his back and blinking dazedly up at the sky, past the three faces staring down at him. "There's a reason people think you're a dick." 

"Up," Bucky commands again, grabbing his tac vest and hauling him to his feet, ignoring the jab. 

"You suck." 

"Thirty eight – twenty four," Bucky says solemnly, and it's then that Clint realizes how bad he must look, how badly his hands are shaking. 

Bucky doesn't play their game. 

"Morrigan, you're white as a sheet," Coulson curses, but Clint brushes away his concern. "What the hell just..." 

"I told you you'd like her." 

Fury, Coulson, and Clint too all turn and look at the vampire who's staring at the spot on the ground where Clint had just been kneeling, a terribly familiar, closed-off look on his face. 

"Yeah," Clint agrees, his voice hoarse, and then he's reaching out and grabbing Buck by the back of the neck, dragging him in close and resting their foreheads together. "Yeah buddy, I know." 

They stay that way for a minute and Clint can feel eyes on them, the gazes of all those people that the Mayor hadn't been able to scare off but he doesn't care. He's hanging on, grounding himself and Bucky, and he doesn't let go until the vampire shrugs out of his hold. 

"Get off me," he says gruffly, straightening his own vest. "Idiot. I'll sap what little body heat you've got left." 

"Shit right?" Clint mutters, rolling his shoulders as another shiver ripples down his spine. "Anybody got a hot tub in this god-forsaken town?" 

Beside him Fury snorts, a sharp, hard sound that's half irritation and only a little amusement, and Clint arches an eyebrow. 

"Coulson does," he explains, clapping said Sheriff on the shoulder. The man's gone pink, his eyes hard and flinty as he glares at his friend, and Clint shakes his head, holds up his hands in placation. 

"Nah man, I was just running my mouth," he backtracks, a strange tingling feeling in the pit of his stomach warring with the pervasive cold. "Just need a hot shower, an hour to shake it off. Having a ghost body check you – not fun." 

"Are you ok?" 

Clint looks at Coulson, studies him, aura snapping and crackling silver, and the hardness, the harshness is gone, replaced by a sincere concern that rocks him back on his heels. 

"No," he says honestly, surprised by the way the man swallows and leans toward him. "But I will be. Just need to warm up again, get something to eat." 

"Take him home Cheese," Fury declares, clapping Coulson on the shoulder, and both he and Clint jump, startled by his gruff command. "Patch him up. Can't have my newest consultant dropping dead on me. Got enough problems already." 

Nodding to each of them, he turns with a swish of his long leather jacket, calling over his shoulder as he heads back toward the crowd. 

"You can _debrief_ him while he's there." 

Bucky snorts and it's Clint's turn to blush painfully, the heat in his cheeks a sharp contrast to the chill still consuming his body. Coulson's just staring off after his friend, watching him shout and wave his arms, actually shove a couple of people to get the moving, Tony Stark among them, and his shoulders are high and tight. It makes Clint nervous, makes him wary, and he doesn't like it. 

"I don't want to impose," he says flatly, without emotion, closing himself off and shutting everything down so that none of the disappointment, none of the wounded rejection makes it's way out. "I'll just head back to Buck's, no big deal. Swing by your office in a few hours." 

"No it's..." 

Coulson pauses, his protest immediate and louder than Clint thinks he'd meant it to be. His aura swirls anxiously around him and it looks as if it's hesitantly reaching out to his own, smoky purple flinching away from it. 

"It's not an imposition," he says quietly, the silver settling around him in a cloak of softer, determined grey. "I'm happy to help in any way I can, especially after..." 

He trails off and Clint bristles a bit, thinks he shouldn't be ok with receiving _gratitude_ for this, but he figures they're all off-balance and maybe he should just take what he can get. Bucky looks between the two of them in an almost comical fashion before scoffing and turning away, heading back down the road. Clint watches him go, knowing that the vamp will head home to brood but that he'll be ok, half wishing he wouldn't so that he had an excuse to follow, but Coulson's watching him, waiting. Clint shoves his hands into his pockets, rocks back on his heels and stares at his boots until the man clears his throat and gives himself a subtle shake. 

"Come on," he says, taking a step toward the road below. "Let's get you cleaned up." 

Clint blinks, looks down at himself, sees blood and mud and knows he's pale and drawn, and well, he hasn't got anything better to do than follow. He's been offered food and a hot tub and maybe a few minutes to sit and gather his wits back about him – what more can a man really ask for?


	18. Chapter 18

Clint doesn't speak on the ride back to Phil's place, just sits silently in the passenger seat of his common-use SUV. 

He feels a bit badly about that. 

He knows what the man is thinking, can see it in the way his face had shuttered, the way he'd hesitated to climb into the car. He thinks Phil doesn't want to bring him home, is only doing this out of a sense of obligation when just the opposite is true. 

He feels an attraction to the man that had come on fast and strong, and wants to bring him home more than he should. It actually unsettles him a little bit, because where he’d wanted to take Steve out to dinner, maybe go back to his for a romp through the sheets, with Barton it… 

Well it feels like it means more. 

And that doesn’t make any sense, because where he’s known Steve for years, harbored a quiet crush that in his heart he knew was never going to be more, he’s barely known Clint a week. Not even that, just a few days, has only spent hours in his presence, and yet he feels a connection with the mostly human man he’s never felt to another person before. There’s something special about him, Phil can feel it, and he’s always trusted his gut. 

He’s incredibly hot but he’s still kind. He’s got the arms of a god but he’s gentle. He’s witty and clever and funny, and he can do incredible things, both with a gun and with his eyes – and from what little he’s seen with a bow. It’s the way he treats the vampire Bucky Barnes, a friendship clearly honest and heartfelt, the way he came running at a call for help, and it’s the way he’d immediately thrown in to help find Kate. 

Phil’s heart had crawled up into his throat seeing the man hit his knees in the dirt, comfort a girl who wasn’t there and hug a ghost no one could see. Like he didn’t care what anyone else thought, like he didn’t care what he looked like. Like there was nothing more important in that moment than doing what he could for a girl who had lost everything… 

That was a good kind of man, and Phil can feel himself falling just a little bit in love. 

“You can drop me off,” the man murmurs as Phil turns up the road that will take them to his little farm, past Barnes’ garage. “Seriously, it’s fine.” 

It’s not – that much is easy to see. He’s holding himself stiffly in his seat, staring out the window, and his whole body is shivering like he’s taken a dip in a winter lake. There’s sweat at his temples and spots of color on his cheeks, and he looks positively ill, but more than that he looks disappointed, looks ashamed. 

“It _is_ fine,” Phil says, although it doesn’t feel that way, not allowing his foot to even hesitate on the gas as he drives them right by the mechanic’s shop. “Truly Clint. I’m happy to help in any way I can, especially after what you just did for Kate. She was a good kid, and…what happened to her shouldn’t have happened. That’s what the SHIELD is for, that’s why I…” 

But he’s gotten off track. 

This wasn’t supposed to be about the guilt weighing heavy on his shoulders – this was supposed to be about thanking Clint. 

“Anyway,” he says with a shrug, only just realizing how heavy and dark the mood in the vehicle has gotten and because he doesn’t want Clint to think his concern is _only_ professional. “I’m happy to lend you the use of my hot tub, even if it's... not quite the date I was picturing." 

And that, _that_ finally gets Clint to look at him, his head snapping around sharply as Phil pulls into his little hidden drive and up to his house, puts the car in park and kills the engine. His eyes are big and surprised and hopeful and it's like a kick in the stomach, all Phil's breath leaving him in a whoof, that tingling spark snapping and popping between them the way it has a dozen times already but that always feels as new and different and exciting as the first. 

"Really?" he asks, and he sounds young and vulnerable and eager, and Phil feels a very sudden, very intense urge to grab him by the nape of the neck and kiss the shock right off his face. 

"Yeah," he replies, and right then and there he takes a chance, reaches across the center console and tucks his fingers beneath Clint's chin, traces his thumb along the edge of his lower lip. It's bold for him but feels warranted, feels necessary, and the need to reassure Clint is stronger than his fear of rejection, of embarrassing himself with pathetic attempts at flirting. "But I think we should agree on something now, before we go inside." 

Clint licks his lips – he seems to be paying more attention to Phil's mouth shaping the words than the actual words themselves – but he shakes himself out of it, nods and sits up straighter in his seat when Phil drops his hand. 

"I think we should agree that this doesn't count." 

Clint blinks, sits back and tilts his head like a curious puppy, then a bright grin breaks slowly over his face. 

"Deal!" he agrees, and he lights up so big and bright it's like fireworks. 

Hopping out of the car, he bounces around the front of the SUV, meeting Phil at the little stone path leading up to the front door of his log home. It's like Phil's reassurances, the promise of a real date to come have both cheered and energized him, put a little bit of life back in him after Kate's ghost drained it so badly. He trots along at Phil's heels with that same sunny smile on his face, looking up at the house over his head and nearly colliding with his back when he pauses to undo the locks by placing his palm flat against the door. 

Phil's wards chime merrily as they step inside, welcoming them both like it's an everyday occurrence for him to return with guests. His plants whisper and rustle, gossiping quietly as they move through the entryway, his glass sings, and if he'd been worried at all about allowing this man into his space he's not anymore. The house shifts and makes space for Clint like he's already a part of it, welcomes him home like he's been lost. It's one of the strongest moments of peace and rightness Phil has felt in a very long time.

**AVAVA**

The house is even more beautiful on the inside. It's big and open, full of enormous windows to let in the sunlight and keep it from feeling cluttered and walled in. To his left the second floor is styled after a loft – open to the living space below – what must be the master bedroom built above a well-designed kitchen and long, narrow dining table. Matched to its druid owner, there's a great sense of stability and calm to the house, bits of bright, clean earth magic scattered everywhere; glass and earth and water. Clint can hear water trickling somewhere, can smell grass and dirt and cherry blossom, feel the hum of wards and a gentle breeze tickling the hair at the nape of his neck, and beside him Phil waits patiently for his appraisal.

Phil, who had gone so far as to touch him and strongly suggest his intentions to ask Clint on a date, Phil, who looks just a little bit nervous and who's smoke grey aura is crackling with shiny silver and fluttering flirtatiously against the deep purple edges of his own. 

It sends a shiver down Clint's spine. 

"Hot tub's out back," Phil says after licking his lips, and Clint offers him a smile, a softer one than the slightly manic, overjoyed grin he'd been wearing earlier, cause it's still Phil, it's still this guy who he's already got a read on as incredibly competent, incredibly badass, and yet so very easily flustered, so adorably reactive to flirtation. 

Clint doesn't fail to notice that the tips of his ears are pink as he leads the way through the house, across the living room and down a short hallway, past a bathroom and the open door of an incredibly beautiful library and workspace. He hesitates a little looking in, wants to step inside and explore but trots on, follows his host out the backdoor onto a patio that overlooks the side yard, hemmed in by the thick forest and the mountain looming overhead. The air is cool, sweet and clean, unlike anything Clint's ever really breathed before, so much green and so much open sky and it's very nearly overwhelming. 

A hawk screams in the distance and Clint laughs. 

"It's just so beautiful up here," he explains when Phil turns and raises an eyebrow, tipping his head back and throwing out his arms and sighing deep. "Smells nice, feels nice, sounds nice..." 

Straightening up, he gives Phil a nice, slow once-over and shows his teeth. 

"And the scenery ain't half bad." 

"Behave," Phil mutters, red blooming across his cheeks before he turns and kneels at the edge of the deck. 

Clint blinks, stunned, before that huge, too-eager grin stretches his face one more time. 

"Woah!" he exclaims, bounding over to Phil's side and kneeling down beside him. "This is awesome – did you _build_ this?!" 

"Sort of," Phil chuckles, his hands building a small pile of kindling in the little stove beneath the huge, black stone basin that seems to grow right out of the side of the hill, the deck built directly around it. "I shaped the stone, yes, but... not with a hammer and a chisel." 

"Damn Coulson," Clint breathes, leaning over to dip his hand into the clean, clear water that fills the bowl of the rock. "That must've taken you ages." 

"It was an exercise in patience, that's for sure." 

As a fire catches in the stove beneath the basin little snaps of red and orange and yellow leap and flare, and Phil climbs slowly to his feet, running his palm along the smooth edge of the rock, and a slow ripple begins at the center of the water's surface. Half a minute the water is bubbling merrily, powered by an unknown energy that pops and hisses, channeled through the druid himself and Clint can't do anything but stare. 

"Not what I was expecting when you said hot tub," he manages to say around a dry mouth and clumsy tongue, "But hell if you aren't somethin' else." 

"Just water and fire," Phil says quietly, but he looks terribly pleased even as he ducks shyly, brushing invisible dirt from his knees. "Those two are easy enough." 

"Maybe for an awesome, badass druid," Clint shrugs, and his nonchalance seems to work for the man because he laughs, loud and full and open, visibly relaxes. 

"Flattery will get you nowhere with me Barton," he chides, but it's playful and flirtatious and it's very obvious that flattery _does_ do things for the man, but it lightens the mood and suddenly things are fun instead of heavy, despite the fact that less than an hour ago Clint pretty damn well confirmed that Kate Bishop has passed. 

"Alright Sergeant, strip off," Phil orders, and it's loud and brisk and teasing and Clint's pretty sure the man doesn't expect him to listen but he is _absolutely_ down for this game. 

"Sir yes sir," he quips with a wink, and then before god or anyone can stop him he's shucking out of his tac vest and dropping it to the deck with a jingling thud of leather and buckles. 

Coulson's eyes go huge and innocent and Clint laughs, innately pleased with the way the man's eyes stick on his chest, give him a nice, slow oggle very unlike the fleeting, embarrassed glance he'd been afforded earlier in the week when the Sheriff had dropped his 'vette at the garage. No, this time his gaze lingers, sweeps across his body like a wisp of silk, warm against his chilled skin. Very nearly a physical caress, he has to bite his lip to keep from asking for more, from _pleading._

But Phil's gone. 

Turned and bolted, like a schoolboy caught out by his crush, and instead of making him nervous, instead of bringing him up short it actually fills Clint with a little bit of confidence, real confidence, not the fake, cocky stuff his fronts with for show. Chuckling to himself, he unbuckles his belt and kicks out of his boots, peels out of his leathers with a flourish, just in case the man is watching from a window. 

As he steps into the naturally formed basin of rock, slips beneath the surface of the water, steaming and swirling, he can sense the magic that powers it – good, clean earth magic that feels like Phil, like the druid's very soul. He hadn't realized until that moment just how much pain he was in, until the heat of the water warms him through and soothes the vicious ache in all his muscles. He's been run through by a ghost before but it wasn't quite as bad as this – Kate was young and strong and her spirit seems to have a much tighter grip on this plane than he would've expected. She'd done a right good job of jolting his organs, rattling his bones and chilling his own psyche inside his chest. 

It _hurts,_ and then it doesn't, and he can't help the moan that escapes him as he eases back against the wall of the stone bowl, settling onto the smooth bench worn into the side. 

_"Morrigan and Mother Earth."_

Clint drags his eyes back open, his head lolling against the rim of the natural hot tub, and finds Phil back on the deck, a pair of dark sunglasses and a wad of blue cloth in his hand. 

"I uh..." he stumbles, staring at Clint over the lip of the bowl. "I brought you some shorts..." 

"If I put 'em on will you join me?" he asks, his voice already thick and low as the magic and the heat and the relief begin to drag him down. "Cause 'm never gettin' out again." 

"It's helping then?" 

"Really, really is." 

Phil makes a considering sound, a cute little hum, then balls up the shorts and tosses them at Clint's head along with the sunglasses, both of which he slips into. Arching and eyebrow over the lenses, grateful for the way they dull his senses, effectively if not as strongly as his own purple pair, he gives Phil a good look over of his own. 

"Well? I held up my end Coulson." 

Another little hum of Deep Thought, a little bit of a frown, then he's making a stay-and-wait motion and disappearing into the house a second time. Clint tries not to be disappointed and is rewarded for his good faith when, a moment later, the druid reappears in some black trunks of his own and a pair of mirrored aviators. He's got an unmarked glass jar in each hand and looks entirely cool and confident despite the vicious scar across his chest; a red, knotted weal just over his heart, and Clint feels his own stutter in his chest. 

He doesn’t let on though, doesn't let it show on his face as Phil slips into the tub across from him and hands him a jar, settles onto the bench opposite and lets his feet drift in Clint's direction. He does a good job he thinks, because the man looks decently comfortable. 

Then he opens his mouth. 

"Well Sheriff Coulson, you _are_ more than meets the eye, aren't you?" 

For a moment Phil just stares, then he's grinning sharp and wolfish and dangerous and it's probably a good thing that Clint took those shorts after all. 

"I try to be."


	19. Chapter 19

It's home-brewed elderberry wine in the jars, sweet and dark and fruity, not too alcoholic. It gets Clint's system working and it tastes pretty incredible, so he sips it slowly and lolls against the side of the natural hot tub, soaking in the heat and letting it permeate his bones, ease the pain and heal the damage Kate's unintentional assault had caused. Coulson lounges on the other side of the tub, doesn't try to force a conversation, and it's nice just sitting there in his presence, just being quiet with another person. He usually only feels like this with Bucky – with everybody else he feels like he needs to joke and chatter and flirt and generally maintain his goofy, cocky persona – but here like this he feels like he can be hurt and off his balance and still be safe. 

"Clint. You need to get out now." 

"Noooooo," he whines, but he knows the druid's probably right. He's lost track of time, doesn't know how long he's been in the water, and combined with the alcohol it's a little bit too intoxicating. 

He actually wobbles when he climbs to his feet, his body heavier than it's supposed to be and the water sucking at him like quicksand, but Phil is right there at his elbow to catch him and help him out. The bubbles go silent in the blink of an eye and a cool wind curls around his body, licking at his skin and wrapping round him like silk, cooling his body. It's better, feels good, and so does Phil's firm, steady grip on him, and by the time he's out and safely steady on the deck he just wants to cuddle up with the guy and sleep. 

He's a snuggly bastard on a good day – after what happened with Kate, well... 

He's feeling a little touch-starved and some life-affirming sex wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. 

Too fast though, too much. 

He can't ask for that. 

Hell, he shouldn't have even asked for this, he should've... 

Bucky would give it to him, no questions asked. He'd nail Clint to the mattress if that was what he needed, and he'd probably even let him cuddle after, but he doesn't want that, he doesn't want to... 

"Hey, are you ok?" 

Clint blinks, realizes that he's got tears rolling silently down his cheeks and his breath is coming in little sobs, quick and shallow. The next thing he knows Phil is pressed all along his front, a line of hot, bare skin sticking against his own tackily as the breeze quickly evaporates the lingering water from the tub. Clint feels the druid's aura wrap around him like a blanket, heavy and comforting, curling into all his empty spaces and around the tender wound still bruised and pulsing on his psyche, his soul. It's perfect and everything he needed and Clint heaves a sigh of relief so great it makes him shudder from head to toe. 

Phil manages to seem hesitant and unsure of his welcome even as he initiates the hug and pulls Clint in against his chest. It doesn't seem fair – Clint's enjoying this very much thanks – but he can't seem to find the words to express his gratitude, any words at all in fact. Instead he wraps his own arms around Phil's waist, buries his face in the curve of the man's shoulder and holds on. 

It takes a while, but eventually he feels ok again, like he's not going to shake apart into a thousand pieces if Phil lets go. And he does let go, of course he has to let go, but he asks first and thank god for that, otherwise it would feel like pulling away and Clint's not sure his shitty, fucked up sense of self-worth could take that hit right not. 

"Better?" 

"Yeah. Yeah, better." 

His voice is low and rough, like he's been gargling gravel, but he gets the words out and Phil seems to realize how hard it was for him to do, because he strokes his hand down Clint's spine from nape to tailbone. 

"Can I let go? I want to get you something to eat – we should probably get your sugar up." 

"You don't have to..." 

"I _want_ to," Phil insists, slowly detangling them when Clint relaxes his grip. "You're not a burden Clint. I... I _like_ you." 

"Like you," Clint parrots, and Phil chuckles, a smile pressing at the corners of his mouth, and somewhere in the back of his mind Clint is pleased, because he's struggling right now, to show any emotion or to express himself the way he feels like he needs to. 

But Phil is great, Phil gets it. 

He takes Clint's dull, unenthusiastic mumblings and finds the truth underneath, and maybe it's a spell and maybe it's not but he doesn't care – he's just happy he's not pushing the man away with his... 

His everything. 

Very suddenly it's just all too much – too many sensations and stimulations and he can't process them all, can't _feel._ He wobbles on his feet and Phil takes him by the elbow, leads him back into the little log house that's so bright and clean and open, so terribly welcoming like he's never really felt before. Stopping off in the bathroom Phil finds him a large, fluffy towel and gently dries his hair for him before wrapping it around his shoulders, seemingly unbothered by the drips they're making all over his floor. Then he takes him to the couch and settles him down in the corner with a massive throw pillow to tuck under his arm, like a child with a stuffed animal. That's better, a little bit better, at least until Phil turns and walks away, heads across the room into the kitchen and slips behind the long, oaken dining table. 

It's too far and Clint doesn't like it but he can't seem to open his mouth. He very nearly gets up even though it hurts to move, but then a flash of dark color at the corner of his eye catches his attention and he stills. 

It's a cat, a long-haired cat, black and orange with large golden eyes, and it pads delicately into the middle of the floor before turning toward him and sitting down. It's fluffy tail wraps around its toes, ears swiveling atop its head, and it stares at him like it can see his damn soul. It's curiously uncomfortable and Clint squirms a little but refuses to drop his eyes, to be intimidated by a giant fluffball. The cat tilts its head, looks him up and down like it's judging him, then comes stalking slowly across the floor and winds its way around his bare ankles before leaping lightly onto the arm of the couch. He eyes it nervously but the cat just lies down beside him and starts to sweep its tail back and forth lazily, stares off across the room like it's waiting for Clint to make a decision. 

He reaches out slowly, puts his hand lightly on the cat's back and strokes. When it doesn't react he rubs gently around the base of its ears and it starts to purr, a deep, contented rumble that increases when he moves his fingertips around to the underside of her - her? - chin. 

"Oh." 

Clint looks up and finds Phil standing in front of him, stunned and staring and immediately retracts his hand, pulls it into his lap. 

"Sorry," he mumbles, his cheeks hot. "Should I not..." 

"No," Phil says hurriedly, "No, it's... huh." 

Stepping forward, he puts the plates in his hands down on the coffee table, sits carefully on the edge and looks at the cat with fascination. 

"This is Miss Cleo," he says, nodding toward the cat as though she understands the formal introduction. "Cleo, this is Clint. She doesn't... really like people." 

As if to make fun of him, or prove him directly wrong, the cat stands, stretches, and creeps down into Clint's lap, curling up beside him even though his trunks are still damp, her tail switching. She's eyeing Phil sharply and he scowls at her, climbs to his feet. 

"Oh hush," he huffs, turning his back on the cat. "What do you know?" 

And that's when it clicks. 

She's Phil's familiar. 

He's not a witch, not even a warlock like his friend Fury, and to be honest Clint would have expected him to have a particular plant he's close with, but it's the cat. Animal Companion, he thinks she's called. No wonder it looks like her and Phil are having a silent conversation. 

"Does she help?" he asks, because it seems important and because it seems polite, especially when the cat lifts her paw and touches his hand, velvet soft, claws carefully sheathed. He starts rubbing her ears again and she picks her purring back up, deep and soothing. 

"Sometimes," Phil admits, still sounding slightly miffed. "She comes and goes, likes to bring me nice things." 

"Not mice." 

"No," he chuckles, "Not mice. Here, eat this for me hmm?" 

It's a sandwich; roast chicken, sundried tomatoes and thin slices of avocado, a spicy chipotle spread. It smells delicious, lights his appetite on fire and he's two huge bites in before Phil's even sat down beside him and picked up his own sandwich. 

"Fffanks," he garbles around a mouthful and the druid chuckles, breaking off a tiny piece of chicken and offereing it to Cleo, who snaps it up. 

"You're welcome." 

They eat in companionable silence and Clint is feeling much better, if incredibly exhausted, and when he leans forward to put his empty plate on the table, causing the cat to go slinking off his lap and trotting away, he leans back at a much deeper slouch than he'd originally started in. He's also tilting dangerously to the side, his head tossed back against the cushions, his shoulder and his upper arm pressed all down Phil's and it feels good. The druid is warm and strong and alive beside him, his energy bright and electric, wind and earth and fire and water all clean and playfully affectionate as they course through the steady smoke of his aura and Clint has to close his eyes against it. 

He's beautiful really, quite beautiful. 

"This ok?" he mumbles, more of a yawn than anything else as he starts to drop, the weight of his muscles pulling him down against Phil's side until his head is resting on the man's shoulder. 

He feels a warm, affectionate wave of something curl around him and he doesn't have to look to know that his and Phil's auras are dancing again, twining around each other like old lovers. 

"Go to sleep," Phil murmurs, and Clint does.

**AVAVA**

Clint wakes up some hours later and the sun is just beginning to set. He feels better, much, much better but he's still tired, knows he should go back to Bucky's and go to bed.

He doesn't want to. 

He's been pushed over sideways onto the couch, his legs thrown over the arm so that he's nearly lying stretched full-out. There's a throw pillow under his head and he's got a thin, light quilt thrown over him, and Phil's hand is in his hair. 

Unwilling to breath in case it's all a dream Clint stays terribly still, letting the world slowly filter back in on him. He can hear a rerun of Dog Cops playing from the flatscreen on the opposite wall – strangely and hilariously modern and materialistic when compared to the rest of the house – and Cleo is a warm weight on his stomach, the quilt soft and smelling like Phil himself, all earth and mint and cool spice. 

And his hand is in Clint's hair. 

Just... touching. 

It's nice – he's only ever really had this with Bucky. Even with Natasha touch had had a point, a reason, whether that reason was sex or war. His body has always been a tool, scrupulously maintained, and while he has no problems using that to his advantage, in his heart he's always wanted more. That's why sex between him and Buck has always been about being friends, not lovers. It's about the closeness, not being soulmates, but here on the couch with Phil's fingers carding gently, idly through his hair it's more. It's the instantaneous connection between their auras, the way they flick against each other's edges teasingly while slowly coiling deeper roots together, and a part of him is scared by that down to his very core. 

"Feeling better?" 

Clint sucks in a deep breath – can't really keep playing possum now can he? 

"Yeah," he mumbles, rolling upright and scrubbing a hand over his face, blinking against the rays of sharp, setting sunlight arrowing in through the windows. "Better. Thanks... Phil." 

The druid tilts his head, very like the cat had earlier in the afternoon, looks him up and down and Clint feels himself blush, feeling very exposed in only his borrowed swimming trunks. 

"You're welcome." 

Very suddenly Clint wants to kiss the man, to taste his lips and mine the depths of his mouth, to understand the full potential of the chemistry that crackles between them and flares every time they touch. Phil's bare chest is broad and strong, his salt-and-pepper chest hair thick between dusky nipples and he wants his hands on that, doesn't know how he can bare to see it covered up again by suits and uniforms, even as sexy as they are. 

"So um, listen," he says, shooting to his feet and rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, no doubt blushing like a teenager. "I'm gonna take off. I uh... I need a full night's sleep and I should probably... get out of your hair." 

Phil frowns but hides it quickly, nods and stands himself. 

"I'll lend you something," he says calmly, his eyes too intent on catching Clint's. "Do you want a ride?" 

"No. No, um... it's fine. I can walk." 

Phil doesn't answer, just nods again and goes off to fetch whatever he means to lend him. It's an excruciating few minutes and Clint actually paces a few strides back and forth, Miss Cleo watching him with a judgemental face from where she's perched on the top of a bookshelf. Then he's back with a pair of jogging pants and a t-shirt with the Army Rangers logo branded across the chest and all Clint's leather tack gear in a paper bag that he hands over without a word. He collects the plates from the coffee table and takes them to the sink, keeping his back turned long enough for Clint to change and drop the folded trunks onto the arm of the couch, to collect his belongings and his thoughts. 

"She'll have imprinted on me now," he blurts, causing Phil to turn and raise an eyebrow. "Kate. When she went through me... she's imprinted." 

"I don't know what that means," Phil says sheepishly, curious and serious. 

"Not all that much. Just... it'll be easier for her to find me than before. I'll be like a... a link, a conduit to keep her here while she's still on this plane." 

"Is that safe for you?" 

Clint blinks, stares, something too big and warm welling up in his chest. He's the last thing Phil should be worried about but the first thing he'd asked after and that... 

That meant a lot to him. 

"I'll be ok," he murmurs, taking a slow step forward, bringing himself up in front of Phil so close that he can feel the other man's body heat through the thin, worn cotton of his borrowed t-shirt. "I'll call you, if she shows up again." 

"Please do." 

"But um... maybe I could call you other than that?" 

Phil smiles, his face brightening like after all that's happened he hadn't expected that, and it makes up Clint's mind about something else that's been weighing on him. The druid has led him to the front door, is holding it open for him though he doesn't seem in any terrible yank to push him through it, but this _is_ goodbye, at least for now. 

So it's not wrong right? 

Good night kisses are a thing? 

"So listen I know we decided that this doesn't count," he says in a rush, "But um..." 

Darting in lightning fast, Clint presses a quick, chaste kiss to Phil's cheek before he turns and leaps down the front steps, taking off up the road at a jog and leaving him standing stunned in the doorway.


	20. Chapter 20

He finds Bucky sitting in the corner of the couch with his feet up, a beer dangling from his hand and Star Wars playing on the television, the sound down so low he can't hear it. The vampire doesn't even look up when he enters, doesn't move when he flops down along the length of the couch and puts his head on Bucky's stomach. His free hand comes up and lights in his hair by instinct alone, and it's not nearly as comforting as Phil's had been but it's enough to quell the restlessness jumping around in the back of his mind. 

Clint turns his face into Bucky's belly, his t-shirt soft and clean, and sighs quietly. 

"No more sex ok?" he mumbles, and he feels Bucky nod. 

A moment of silence passes. 

"He asked me out for coffee." 

Clint chuckles, amused by Bucky's stunned, far away tone. 

"The super soldier," he says, more to clarify it for Bucky than himself. 

"He said... he's an idiot!" Bucky snarls, shoving Clint off so he can sit up, chugging the last of his beer and slamming the bottle down on the coffee table. "Thanks for that wrap-up by the way, you absolutely _dick._ Thought I was rubbing a hard-on against his leg, said he thought – coffee first..." 

Clint barks a laugh. 

"You're welcome," he snorts, getting up and scrubbing a rough hand through Bucky's hair as he rounds behind the couch, dodging a swipe of claws. "Seriously dude, relax. He asked you out on a date – wasn't totally freaked by the fact that another guy had his dick pressed up against him so at the very least he's open to being bi. What is the problem here?" 

"You know what the problem is!" 

Clint sighs, runs his fingers through his own hair. 

"He knows what you are," he says carefully. "He hasn't run screaming." 

"Not yet," Bucky sneers, slumping back into the couch cushions and wrapping his arms around his ribs. "He will." 

"Well if he does he's not worth your fucking time!" Clint snaps. "That anti-vamp stuff is _crap_ Buck! Unless he's a hundred percent vegan I better not hear shit out of his mouth!" 

"You can't hear shit anyway." 

It's mumbled, sulky, and that more than anything tells Clint just how much Bucky appreciates his championing, how much he needs it. If he wasn't feeling all kinds of down on himself he'd take Clint's head off for defending him like that. 

"I kissed the Sheriff." 

Bucky blinks, half turns to look at him, eyes flicking over his neck blatantly enough to make him grin, to make them both laugh. 

"How was that?" he asks after they're done chuckling. 

"Quick," he huffs truthfully. "I just... kinda ambushed him at the door, planted one on his cheek..." 

"That's not a kiss." 

"Fuck you, at least I _got_ to first base." 

"According to Rogers I got to third. Second?" 

"I think you guys are playing a different sport dude." 

Bucky snorts, flips him off. 

"You gonna tap that?" he asks after another beat of silence. 

"You gonna tap Rogers?" 

Bucky blushes, a physical tell that always surprises Clint. 

"Well, let me know if you need anything," he says with a shrug, playing it off to get them both back on safe ground. "Seriously. If you ever need a top off... I mean that's different you know? I'm always down to play Red Cross." 

"Thanks. I'm good." 

"Just... don't forget it ok? Don't get all self-sacrificing on me or I'll kick your vamp ass." 

"Whatever Barton," Bucky scoffs, getting to his feet and clicking off the television. " 'M goin' to bed." 

"Yeah, me too. Night." 

Bucky just grunts, and Clint can't help a grin. 

All in all, wasn't a bad day, was it? Could have been better, sure – he would've much rather Kate not have gone barreling through him, but he'd gotten a nice long dip in a hot tub and a cuddle with Phil Coulson out of it, so... 

Worth it. 

Crawling beneath the sheets, he flumps over onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, his arms behind his head as he replays the day over in his mind. 

He maybe kinda wishes Coulson were here, but he can't think of anything he'd have done differently.

**AVAVA**

Clint bolts upright in a cold sweat, gasping for breath and clutching at the sheets, the hair standing up on the back of his neck. He can feel eyes on him, his heart hammering as his hand goes for the knife tucked between the mattress and the box spring, but the bedroom door is still closed, the room empty.

Well, mostly empty. 

"Jesus Kate," he huffs, trying to get his breathing back under control as the spectral teenager stares at him from the foot of his bed, her arms crossed and a blank look on her face. 

"You look like you've seen a ghost." 

"Hah hah," he deadpans, flopping back down onto the pillows and pressing a hand to his chest, feeling his heart pound and finding himself terribly glad that he'd worn clothes to bed. 

_Coulson's clothes..._

"You're staying with Bucky?" Kate murmurs, glancing around the room like she can see through the walls. "Should've figured. I tried to wake him up." 

"Yeah, he sleeps like the dead." 

Kate giggles, then claps a hand over her mouth with a sharp cracking sound, like she's corporeal, and Clint arches and eyebrow, slowly sits back up. 

"What?" 

"I shouldn't laugh." 

"Why not?" 

"Because I'm dead!" she snaps, and Clint turns to look at the door, wondering if they've woken the vampire in the other room and then wondering why it would matter. 

The girl is shivering, hugging herself, and there are pale, silvery tears rolling down her partially translucent cheeks, and Clint sighs, wishing he was a bit better at this. Maybe he is, with people, but with a ghost it's hard. He can't hug her again, not this soon – his body wouldn't be able to handle it – so instead he scooches over, pats the bed beside him until she crawls onto the covers, sits back against the headboard with her knees drawn up to her chest. 

"Talk to me kiddo," he murmurs, turning sideways so he can look at her, his knee near her booted foot. 

Silence passes, and when she finally manages to speak her voice cracks. 

"I don't wanna be dead," she whispers. 

Clint sighs, scrubs a hand through his hair. 

"I know," he says quietly. "I know, and it's not fair, but there's nothing you can do about it now Katie-Cat. There's... there's no undoing this." 

It takes a while for that statement to sink in, a while longer for Kate to work through her tears and her sniffles and there's nothing Clint can do but sit beside her and offer her a metaphorical shoulder to lean on. Eventually she pulls herself together, wipes her face on her sleeve and sighs, long and shaky, before leaning her cheek on her knees and watching him with big, wet eyes. 

"You're still here," Clint insists, tilting his head until he can meet her gaze. "You might not be a real girl anymore, but you're still walkin' and talkin' Katie. You can still... _do,_ you know?" 

"You're the only one that can see me Clint," she replies, but it sounds more like the whiny complaint of a teenager now, and he can feel the tension in his shoulders loosen. "The only one who can hear me." 

"What, bored of me already?" 

This earns him a half-hearted chuckle and it's better, even if nothing's changed. 

"So. Do my parents know?" 

And ok, now Clint _really_ wishes Coulson were here, if only for a very different reason. 

He should probably call him. 

Clint glances at the alarm clock on the bedside table – it's barely two in the morning, too early, too _late..._

"Your mom reported you missing," he says carefully, the words coming before he knows what he's going to say, what he _should_ say. "Fury held a press conference. The town knows you're missing – they're all... keeping an eye out for you, but..." 

"But they won't find me. Not alive." 

"I told Coulson you were a ghost," Clint says, not knowing what else there is to say. "Coulson and Fury too. They know you're..." 

"That I'm dead." 

"Yeah. They're still... we're still looking for you Kate. 'S just... you never made it down you know?" 

Kate lifts her head, chews her lip. 

"I don't... I don't really remember," she says slowly, and Clint feels a very sudden, very policeman-like urge to grab a pencil and a steno pad. 

"What do you remember?" 

"I was supposed to drive down the mountain, go in to Charleston." 

Kate frowns, her forehead wrinkled as she bites her lip. 

"I had an interview... to... show my art?" 

"Right." 

"And I... I remember getting in the car. _My_ car..." 

"What did you drive?" 

Kate blinks, looks at the wall across the bedroom, frowns. Which... weird, cause as far as questions went Clint thought that one was a softball. 

"A Beetle," she says slowly, ignoring Clint's look of surprise. "VW. Dad hated that car; said it wouldn't drive up here but... I mean, where would I go?" 

She huffs, a sad, half-hysterical chuckle, shakes her head. 

"Just down, away, out of this place..." 

Jumping up, the sheets eerily still beneath her, she begins to pace back and forth at the foot of the bed, stopping sharply to spin on her heel and stare at him, her arms hugging her ribs tightly. 

"Everyone thinks it's so safe up here, that we should stay, that _I_ should've stayed," she rambles, her voice wobbly but vehement, and Clint rolls up onto his knees, reaching out a hand because she's starting to go fuzzy at the edges, to flicker. "But it's like a trap, this place, all of us together... A safety net's still a _net._ But I was just a kid, just a normal, human kid..." 

"Kate..." 

"But it wasn't the big bad city that swallowed me up, was it? I didn't even make it off this fucking mountain, I didn't even..." 

"Kate!" he warns sharply, crawling down to the end of the bed, holding out his hands palm up. "You need to breathe girl. You're alright, just... take my hands ok? You're..." 

"You're not listening!" she shrieks, throwing up her own hands like she's going to shove him, and Clint topples backward onto his ass and out of her reach, but Kate's already gone, disappearing into nothing with a pop and leaving a chill in the air behind her. 

"Shit," Clint mutters, flopping over onto his back and dropping his forearm over his eyes. 

With Kate gone her cutesy little ghostly aura has faded, dropping the room back into darkness, leaving only the memory of her image behind his eyes. She was pretty, slender but strong, pale (well of course she was pale) big, dark eyes and long dark hair, and he could see her going down to the city, could see her mesmerizing a room of the local art. She had the potential for sophistication, for the high and flighty glitzy-ritz someone like Clint could never pull off. 

She'd dressed well for her interview – dark, close fit jeans and calf-high leather boots, a pretty button-up blouse that might've been purple once and a leather jacket, light but elegant make-up, and he's... he's glad for her. It seems the least the universe can afford her; that she still looks beautiful in death, that if she's stuck this way, unchanging, _unchangeable_ forever, at least she... at least she gets to be the very best of herself. 

It's late. 

He's exhausted, cold, a little bit lonely, and... 

And alive. 

Christ. 

He needs to call Coulson, he needs to find Kate, he... 

He sets the alarm for five and goes back to sleep.


	21. Chapter 21

When he finally wakes up again later that morning Clint is all kinds of unsettled. He actually forgoes his coffee he feels so jittery, and he pumps out a couple hundred push-ups and sit-ups before the need to pace becomes controllable. Bucky clearly feels the same way when he finally drags himself out of bed because he's wearing his tacticals, his hair pulled back and heavy eyeliner ringing his eyes. As a sniper, Clint knows the khol cuts down on sun-glare, and he can spot the weapons secreted on Bucky's person - he's ready for a fight. 

"Let's go," he growls in Russian, and Clint is quick to shrug into his gear, to strap on his leathers and his bow and follow after. 

He doesn't ask where they're going. He and Bucky have been friends long enough for him to know when to push and when to leave the guy alone, and now is definitely the time to keep his mouth shut. Besides, there aren't all that many places for them to be headed up here right? Not all that many ways to get into trouble? 

Yeah, he wishes he'd kept that thought to himself. 

See, Clint's an Iowa boy right? 

That's like, _seriously rural._

As in, your closest neighbor is at least six miles away, and you gotta drive an hour or more to get your groceries. When Bucky had said 'farmers market,' Clint hadn't really gotten the full picture, hadn't really understood how _big_ this thing was. Small town, small market – nothing he'd seen so far had prepared him for... _this._

If he'd thought he'd seen a big crowd the day before when he and Bucky had gone up to the sports field to spar, it's nothing compared to what he's looking at now. There must be twice as many people milling around, the town transformed by a strange, carnival-like atmosphere that makes Clint anxious, all music and chatter and lights. The tiny main street has been taken over with booths, hundreds of tents and tables covering every square inch of realestate and it's... 

It's a lot. 

Too many people, too much noise, too much movement to be stuck in the middle of when the both of them are meant to be at a distance, and Bucky's not in a good place. 

Clint himself can feel the hair on the back of his neck standing up. 

He doesn't want to be here. 

Something's wrong. 

Bucky though, Bucky was always pigheaded, and he pushes on, slipping through the crowd doing his best not to come into physical contact with anyone. Clint follows, his hand tucked under his belt at the small of his back where his gun is holstered, agitated. He's got his shades on to damper the cacophony – witch, werewolf, goblin, fae - but he keeps catching flickers of something else in the corner of his eye, something dark. He chases after it, follows its path, but he can't see around _everything else..._

Bakery bread. 

Fresh produce. 

Blankets and baskets and woodworking, and ok, now he kind of gets how this place is mostly self-sufficient. 

They shouldn't be doing this, they shouldn't be here, like everything's fine and normal. He can feel Kate's ghost clinging to him, like she's following him from the other side of the astral plane – or... wherever she is – and there's something else skulking through the crowd that he doesn't like. 

"What the hell are we doing here," Clint hisses under his breath as Bucky shoulders his way up to a table and starts to pick his way through a pyramid of dark, fragrant plums. "Barnes..." 

As soon as Clint's hand touches his arm Bucky turns on him like a wolf in a trap, eyes gold, teeth bared. His snarl is deep and sharp and everyone within a ten-yard radius jerks and takes a huge step back. Clint squares his feet and lifts his chin, bares his teeth right back – he might not have the kind of fangs an American Vampire can pull, but he's got an attitude that's just as big, and he's not stupid enough to back down and show fear. 

Bucky blinks in shock, pulls back, clearly surprised at himself, and Clint takes the opportunity to grab him by the arm and drag him through the crowd into an abandoned alley between two small shops. 

"What the fuck, Buck?" he growls darkly, "If you can't keep a lid on the whole bloodsucking vampire thing what the hell'd you even leave the house for?" 

_"Shut up,"_ Bucky snarls, planting both hands on Clint's chest and knocking him back into the brick wall behind him. _"Listen!"_

"Cute," Clint sneers, using his middle finger to flick his own ear. "But I can't he...mmph!" 

Bucky's hand clamps over his mouth and he's standing close enough that his chest is keeping Clint pinned to the wall, but he's not focused on him, not staring at his throat. He's got his head tilted, his eyes far away, and Clint breathes out through his nose, trying to calm his racing heart so the vampire can better hear whatever he's listening for. 

"I can't..." 

"I know," Clint confides, trying to soothe the irritation flickering gold around the edges of Bucky's pupils, the low rumble bubbling up out of his chest. "I can't see it either. Bucky, what the hell is that thing?" 

"I don't know," he hisses, stepping back far enough that Clint drops two inches down onto the cobbled street. 

He hadn't even realized Bucky had him off the ground. 

"I can _feel_ it," he mutters under his breath, starting to pace the short length of the alley, flinching away from the sunlight coming in at mouth where the buildings no longer cast a shadow. "It's... dark. Feels like I'm walking in a cemetery; I don't... Could feel it, at home before we left, but barely. Here..." 

"Kate paid us a visit last night," Clint says, because at least that part he thinks he understands. "She tried to wake you up." 

"I didn't..." 

"I know. I get it dude. She's not pissed. But she was there. We talked, for a while..." 

"This isn't her," Bucky snarls, his teeth still sharp in his mouth. "Not this." 

"I _know,"_ Clint stresses. "But think about it, _moron._ She goes missing, something _inside_ the community kills her, and all of a sudden this thing shows up, following her around like some black-shadow perv..." 

"You think that's what killed her?" 

"I think it's one helluva coincidence," Clint answers grimly. "And I think if we find that thing, we might find..." 

"We might find her." 

"Yeah." 

Bile stings the back of Clint's throat, sour and unpleasant, and a heavy finality settles onto Clint's shoulders knowing that now they're officially looking for a body. It's... terrible and horrible and all kinds of shitty, but what else can they do now? He doesn't know anything about putting a ghost back in its body, doesn't know if that's even possible, and he... 

God, he doesn't want to think about what Kate will look like when they find her. 

If, fuck, _if_ they find her..." 

"Come on," Bucky rumbles, resettling his tactical vest across his shoulders, resettling _himself._ "Let's just get this done. Keep your eyes open." 

"Yeah, I'll keep my damn eyes open," Clint grumbles, shoving him in the back to make him stumble. "But you keep your god damn cool, you hear me asshole?" 

"I'm always cool." 

"Bullshit," Clint snarls, lifting his hands for another smart shove. "You... oh hey Steve."

**AVAVA**

Clint makes short work of disappearing after that, leaving a snarly, grumbly Bucky in the perfectly capable set of arms he'd stumbled into. Steve had been staring at him with wide, blue eyes that looked more surprised than fearful, so Clint's guessing the two will manage to work out maybe a third of a conversation before Bucky does something stupid and pathetic like put his foot in his mouth and run away.

Anyway, he has better things to do than watch those two dance around each other. 

Now that he's got half an idea what the hell is going on, the beginnings of a plan are starting to form, which means he's got a Sheriff to find. 

It's harder than he thinks it should be. There's too much going on, too many people milling around, and he wishes more than anything to be up high, so he finds a nice, thick-trunked tree near the edge of the square and shinnies up, walking out onto a branch as far as his weight will allow. 

Amazing what eight or ten feet will do to relax a guy. It feels quieter up here, cooler somehow away from the heat and tussle of the crowd, and Clint's quick to scan the masses for familiar faces, feeling like one against a million. There's Bucky though, arms crossed over his chest, rocked back on his heels with his head down as Steve shuffles his feet like a fifth grader. And Stark, running a little booth down at the end with his fiancé Pepper beside him, the glint of metal bits and pieces spread out all around him. He can see Derek Bishop, recognized from his pictures, standing dark and looming like the packless werewolf he is in the center of a knot of sympathizers, and he... 

"Motherfucker, what are you doing up there?" 

Clint yelps and jerks so hard his boots slip, and he has to pull some fancy acrobatics to turn his fall into a semi-graceful dismount. He only makes it halfway down - he's hanging upside down from his knees when a hand plants itself in his chest - and he finds himself face-to-face with the warlock mayor Nicholas Fury. 

"Uhhh..." 

"Hawk, my ass," he grumbles, glaring Clint up and down. "Swingin' around like a damn monkey." 

"You've looked me up then," Clint says flatly, crunching his abs to reach for the branch above him and unhook his knees. He lands heavily and turns on his toes to face the man that could zap him like a bug where he stands. "Do we have a problem Sir?" 

"You tell me," Fury growls, and hey, Clint will take what he can get. 

Extending his hand, he's met by a firm grip and an even firmer brush of the man's aura, prickly and heavy and dark, dark green swirling even darker at the edges. 

"Seen the Sheriff?" he asks, because he hasn't quite gotten a handle on this man and he isn't sure he wants to. 

"Cheese?" the man asks, quirking an eyebrow and barking a terrifying laugh. "Why, you got plans to actually get some work done?" 

Clint chooses not to deign him with an answer. 

Fury snorts another laugh and Clint decides he likes him more when he's deadly-gruff-and-quiet than when he's amused. He's terrifying either way, but when he's laughing Clint feels the need to look over his shoulder. Still, the man jerks his chin toward the far end of Main Street, gives Clint a general direction, and lets him go without further assault on his paranoia. 

It takes him a while to make his way down the length of the street to the little booth Coulson's set up at the far end. He's not expecting what he finds, but the nickname Fury had dropped makes a lot more sense when he finally reaches his destination; a shaded tent housing three long tables and approximately a dozen cube-coolers. One of the tables holds multiple tubs and tubes, blocks and blocks of pale, creamy soap, but the other two are covered with... cheese? 

"Wow," he says with significant astonishment. "How many kinds of goat cheese are there?" 

"Hey," Phil greets him with a soft smile, one that makes Clint want to curl up on a sunny couch with him. "Didn't expect to see you out here." 

Clint grins because the good Sheriff is rubbing his palms anxiously on his thighs, thin, worn denim hugging them lovingly. He's as dressed-down as Clint has ever seen him – dark blue jeans, hiking boots, a frost-grey henley – and suddenly looks self-conscious under Clint's scrutiny, but let's not forget he's not called Hawkeye for nothing. He'd caught sight of Phil amongst the crowd on his way across the street, and he'd moved comfortably and confidently in his civvies – he's got nothing to be nervous about. 

Besides, Clint's enjoying the view. 

"Buck wanted fruit," he says casually by way of explanation, as Phil shakes the hand of a man he's accepting a dozen eggs from. "But then he bumped into Steve, so..." 

"You mean he was _assisted_ into Steve?" Phil asks with a chuckle, tucking the little padded egg crate into one of his coolers. "I've seen your kind of divine intervention Mr. Barton." 

"Did you just call me divine?" he asks, fluttering his eyelashes. 

Phil laughs, then gestures him around the front table into the little square set-up he's built himself. Clint smiles, surprised but delighted, and scoots around the end of the table only to come face-to-face with Dottie the Toggenburg. Her collar is attached to a long piece of clothesline tied to a table leg, and she's happily chewing away at something, standing in the shade next to the lawn chair Coulson's set up in the corner. Clint gives her a few scritches and she butts her head against his leg chummily before going back to her cud, leaving him to take the seat next to Phil's. 

"Seriously though, what is all this stuff?" he asks, gesturing to the wide array of food products set out for sale. "I don't think I've ever had goat's cheese before. Or is it _chevre?"_

"If you're fancy," Coulson chuckles, leaning forward to grab a couple things off the table. 

Clint absolutely _does not_ stare at the strip of skin revealed when his shirt rides up in the back. 

"I sell the milk of course," he says, sitting back down and handing Clint a block of off-white soap swirled with pale amber and what looks like oatmeal. "But I make soap and lotions too. Smell." 

Clint lifts the block to his nose, inhales the clean, slightly sweet scent, smiles. 

"Milk-and-honey," Phil explains, opening one of the little white tubs and taking out a dollop of lotion. "The oatmeal softens your skin too. Here." 

Taking the block from Clint's hands, he puts it back on the table and turns his wrist over, rubs the lotion into his pulse point. Clint swallows, does not, damn it, _does not_ think dirty thoughts right there in the middle of a small town street fair surrounded by supes who can probably _smell_ arousal. 

"Wow," he says thickly, breathing in the scent at his wrist because it's better than any of the other things he wants to do in the moment. "That's amazing. God, I would _eat that."_

"This I would not recommend," Phil chuckles. "That's cherry and brown sugar." 

"And why can I not eat that exactly?" 

"There's a significant amount of wax in both the lotion and the soap. I source it from Tripp's bees. Have you met Tripp?" 

"Not yet," Clint says, settling back into his chair, watching the bustle around them. 

Coulson makes a humming sound, then gets to his feet, puttering around at the table for several minutes. While he's up, a young woman and her small daughter approach, chatting with their Sheriff as easily as you'd chat with any other friend of neighbor. The little girl pets Dottie's flank, giggling all the while, and her mother eyes Clint with curiosity and a bit of confusion but blushes and smiles apologetically when Clint grins and winks at her. 

Once they've gone, with a wave and canvas bag full of soaps, Phil thumps back down beside him with a paper plate full of crackers and small cheese wedges, balancing it on both their knees. 

"Chevre's a _type_ of goat cheese," he explains, as Clint turns the plate around a bit. "It's actually pretty strong and intense for goat's cheese. I'm working on some at home, but I didn't bring any this week." 

Clint bites down on a smile, tickled by how obviously passionate Phil is about this, how adorably geeky and committed he is. 

"This is aged gouda," he says, picking up a thin slice of cheese, dropping it onto a cracker, and handing it over. "Smooth, sweet, with a dark, caramel flavor..." 

Clint pops the bite into his mouth, crunches, then hums happily, licking his lips. 

"Did _not_ think 'sweet' was a word to describe a cheese, but that was really good." 

Phil smiles, cheeks pinking. 

"Brie," he says, this time spreading a softer cheese with a small, round-bladed knife. "Smooth, mild – you've probably seen brie before." 

"Had it in France once," he answers before taking a bite. "This one's better though." 

"Goat brie is milder than the kind made from cow's milk. I added a bit of lemon zest to amp up the citrus." 

"What about that one?" Clint asks, jerking his chin at the last slice of cheese, watching Phil stack it between two crackers and plotting how he can get the man to feed it to him. "It's purple - I like it already." 

"It's not purple," Phil snorts, offering him the little sandwich despite Clint's puppy-dog eyes. "And you'd better try it before you give your opinion. Queso de Murcia al Vino. It comes from Spain, and not many people care for it. You give it a wash in red wine, which is what gives it the color." 

Clint nods, takes the cracker and nibbles hesitantly around the edge before chomping into it. It's sweet and grapey, and he's been to Spain, and it takes him right back there to the Costa del Sol – almonds and wine and the hot, hot sun. 

"I'll take that as a thumbs up?" 

"Mmmhmm!" 

Phil laughs, reaches up onto the table and carves another chunk off the rind, moving a little 'Free Samples' sign in the process. He breaks a chunk off, pops it into his mouth before offering Clint the rest, chewing before he speaks again. 

"I'm happy with the way it came out," he says, sucking the edge of his thumb just to make Clint bite down on a whine. "It's my tenth, eleventh try? Been working on it a long time – you've got to have a delicate hand with this one." 

"And do you have a delicate hand Sheriff Coulson?" Clint asks, deep and dark and smooth. 

A calm, steady beat of silence thumps between them, hot and heavy tension before Phil smirks. 

"Where one's needed," he replies, just as silkily, his eyes dark. "Or wanted." 

"Have dinner with me?" 

Clint blinks, surprised at himself, but he's not going to take it back now, not with Phil smiling at him with all kinds of promise. 

"How about I cook for you," he suggests, nodding his chin at Clint's empty plate. "I've got a nice halloumi aging at home that I think you'll like." 

"Please tell me that's a euphemism," Clint groans, setting the plate aside in the little paper trash bag tucked under the edge of the table so that he can cross his legs, making Phil chuckle. 

"We'll see," he allows, reaching out the give his goat a pat. "Work first, play later. You spoke with Nick?" 

"Got spoke _at,"_ Clint grumbles, mood sobering quickly. "There's something bad sneaking around up here Coulson." 

Glancing around, Clint waits until a group of teenagers passes and lowers his voice. 

"Kate visited me last night," he says out the side of his mouth, eyes on the crowd in front of him. "She doesn't remember getting down the mountain. Whatever this thing is, it's linked to her, and I'm guessing it's what killed her." 

Phil sighs, his face dark, as he too watches his community spilled out in front of him like a hundred walking, talking secrets. 

"Shit." 

"Yup." 

They sit together quietly for a few minutes, watching the world move, all levity and playfulness evaporated. 

"We need to check the SHIELD," Phil says quietly, his voice full of weariness and uncertainty. "Damn it. This is exactly what I wanted to avoid. It will take weeks to search the interior, and that's _if_ she didn’t cross it..." 

"I can help there," Clint says, plans turning and shifting as his own, purple aura crackles in the air in front of him. "Between me and Bucky we should be able to narrow it down." 

"Alright," Phil agrees, sounding so tired that Clint can't help but reach over and take his hand. "We'll start tomorrow." 

"You'll find her Phil," Clint says, despite knowing it's a stupid statement to make. "We'll find her." 

Phil smiles wryly, but he squeezes his fingers tight, and doesn't pull his hand away until his next customer comes up to the table.


	22. Chapter 22

It's a somber mood that hangs over the court house the next morning when they gather together in Phil's office, preparing to begin the search for Kate's body. No one's saying it, no one's calling it that, but no one's talking either, no one's chatting or laughing or... anything. Fury's lurking dark and heavy in the corner of the room watching the proceedings with a grim scowl, but it's Coulson who's in charge, having summoned and organized Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, and several other men from the community to help, including the previously mentioned Antoine Triplett, a quiet young healer. He's wisely advised Derek Bishop to stay home and Clint suspects there's a bit of suggestion magic at play there, but he thinks the situation calls for it – the last thing they need is a volatile, emotionally wounded omega werewolf in the thick of things. 

There's enough unsettled testosterone in the room already thanks. 

Bucky looks ready to do murder. 

The vampire doesn't know the color of his own aura. Clint's never told him, and he's never asked. Odd, because Clint's met other vamps you know, the American variety as well as the Transylvanian and the Olde English. Them, they don't have auras, none at all, and he's never been sure what makes Bucky different. The swirling gold is bright and glittering at times, so shiny Clint wants to reach out and touch it, but most often, like now, it's a dull, burnished color, almost amber, the sun passing through storm fog. 

His hackles are up. 

Clint shifts on his feet, leans back to sit on the edge of Phil's desk and crosses his arms over his chest. He and Bucky are dressed in full-out assault gear, both of them armed to the teeth by unspoken agreement - in Bucky's case literally. Clint's got his bow and a quiver stuffed with trick arrows, and Bucky is turning a KA-BAR tactical knife over and over in his hand, sheathing it on his thigh before pulling it out again to play with it. 

Steve is staring at the knife, eyes caught by the gleam of light coming off the blade, so Clint kicks Bucky sharply in the ankle. The vamp growls at him but sheathes the knife a final time, crosses his own arms and sits his ass down at Clint's side. 

Stark is staring at _him._

"I looked you up," he says suddenly, his voice loud and grating on the respectful hush of the room. "The _Amazing Hawkeye."_

Clint cocks an unimpressed eyebrow – he can practically hear the finger quotes – but he's not sure where Stark is going with this so he waits him out. 

"The things they say about you," he says slowly, even as Steve mumbles at him to knock it off, "They're impossible." 

Beside him Bucky snorts, a derisive, disrespectful sound that causes Stark's face to shutter, his eyes to narrow. 

"No human can make those shots," he accuses, mouth twisted into a sneer. "My _computers_ can't even make those shots. Come to think of it, you can do a _lot_ of things you shouldn't be able to do Barton. So what _are_ you doing here?" 

"Same as you Stark," Clint drawls, blatantly casual even as Bucky gets to his feet and fists his hands at his sides, a low rumble coming up out of his chest. "Just trying to help out." 

"You shouldn't even be here," the genius says, but it _is_ the genius talking now; curiosity, lack of understanding, not anger. "You shouldn't have been able to get through the SHIELD, you shouldn't..." 

"The SHIELD is _my_ responsibility Mr. Stark," Coulson says suddenly, stepping into the room with the waitress, Skye, on his heels. "I'll be doing a thorough analysis of its strengths and weaknesses these next few days myself – I'd appreciate it if _you_ focused on the matter at hand." 

Stark scowls but shuts up, surprisingly enough, though he still levels Clint with the stink-eye every few seconds, distracted. Phil steps further into the room, touches Skye on the elbow and gestures her toward the small bathroom off the back of his office, waiting until she's inside with the door closed before he faces the group with a serious look on his face. 

"All right," he says heavily, unfurling a wide map across his desk, "We're going to hike up to the outer limits of town, hit the SHIELD and start doing a perimeter check. If Kate crossed it on her way down the mountain there will be a record of it, and if there was... violence within a mile or so of the line itself I should... be able to feel it." 

Clint frowns – he doesn't like that idea – and it seems like he's not the only one. Stark and Rogers are both shifting uncomfortably, trading glances, but neither says anything. Bucky too keeps quiet, stoic as ever. 

"Stark, I want your drone up and running as soon as possible," Phil continues, and Stark nods, lifting the duffle bag that's been resting at his feet. "It will send surveillance back?" 

"I've got it set to loop the perimeter from about forty feet up," Stark nods, opening the bag to pull out a small, flat robot that looked a bit like a helicopter. "It'll take continuous video and store it on one of my hard drives up at the house." 

"It's secure?" 

Stark pauses, scowls. 

"What do you think?" 

Coulson holds up his hand in surrender, offers nothing more than that and a single nod. 

"Good. Skye will be joining us; she's been training in scent detection," he explains, answering Clint's questions about the waitress' presence as well as the strange thumps coming from the bathroom. "She prefers to be addressed as Daisy when in her shifted form – we'd both appreciate it if you could all respect that." 

Clint bites back a smile – that last bit had been said in a determined, passionate tone and instead of the jealousy he'd expected to feel, he's struck with the incredibly inappropriate urge to _aww_ at how adorable Coulson is. Not really cool under the circumstances, but Coulson doesn't help by walking over to open the bathroom door and letting out a slim, lithe Labrador dog with a shiny, chocolate-colored coat. 

"Alright?" he asks quietly, and the dog – Daisy – responds with a quiet _boof._

Coulson nods and grabs a tangle of straps off the back of his desk chair, shaking it out into a sleek harness that the shifter steps into with practiced ease. Once it's buckled on, she shakes out her fur, **POLICE K9** tags and patches jingling. She waits for Coulson to rise from his crouch before coming to a heel at his side, ears perked as she looks over the group, wet, black nose wriggling. 

"We'll hike out to the gates," Coulson says, and Clint feels something tickle at his spine as he remembers his introduction to this little community, his first brush with the beautiful, lustrous aura of the man in front of him. "If she left that's where she'll have had to head down. If not, it's a good place to start if we head west..." 

He doesn't say anything. 

Neither does Bucky. 

It's nothing more than body language; a stiffening of spines, a subtle shift of shoulders that stops Coulson mid-sentence. 

"You disagree?" he asks, and Clint flicks a glance in Buck's direction, uncomforted by the vampire's hard, gold gaze. 

"Sorry Boss," he says carefully, an acknowledgement of his own misgivings. "She said she didn't make it out, and I don't think she'd be around if she had." 

Stark makes a face like he's swallowed a frog, opens his mouth to say something that Clint is sure with be absolutely _profound,_ but Coulson silences him with a single, raised finger. 

"And you?" he asks, turning to Bucky, expression open like he's actually willing to listen. 

Bucky scowls, then shrugs. 

"Grid search is slow," he says shortly. "You go one by one, it will take you weeks to do it right. There are smarter ways to do it." 

"Prioritize your grid," Clint offers up quickly, to counter Bucky's ineffective stoicism. He knows the vampire wants to help here, had truly cared about Kate Bishop, but his discomfort with other people, with this particular job, is both obvious and unhelpful. 

Casting him a look, he steps up to the desk and is relieved when Bucky follows, even if he rumbles irritably the whole time, like some sort of disgruntled outboard motor. Clint just sighs and flicks the transparent grid sheet Coulson's got at the ready over the map of the mountain range, the outer limits of Downer's Hollow marked in blue ink. 

"There are some quadrants that are a more likely... crime scene than others," he says, somber and heavy with implication. "These four, and the upper back half of the range." 

Bucky shakes his head, shoulders against him roughly to gesture at the map with gleaming steel fingers. 

"These three, here." 

"Why?" 

Clint looks up, finds Coulson staring down at the map intently, a frown on his face. 

"Makes sense." 

"Murder's not supposed to make sense," Stark sneers, and Bucky scoffs under his breath. 

"Murder always makes sense," he mutters. "Sex, revenge, money... feeding." 

"You think we're looking for a dump site?" Clint asks in Russian. "Not a murder scene?" 

"Not an accident," Bucky answers, in English because he has no sense of self-preservation at all. "It's what I'd do." 

"Not really very smart then, is it?" Stark comments, because of course he does. "I mean, if we do find her up there it won't look good." 

"Shut up Tony," Rogers hisses, surprising Clint. 

Bucky ignores them both. 

"We'll start there then." 

Coulson's firm, quiet command breaks the strange, sharp tension that had been building since Bucky had first opened his mouth, setting them all to moving; tightening the laces of hiking boots, shrugging on canvas packs filled with water bottles and first aid kits. Clint muses on the suspicious nature of the leprechaun in front of him as he adjusts the straps of his quiver and bow, the solemn seriousness of a man who should be cheerful and mischievous by nature. There's something there, deepening the edges of Stark's red and gold aura, dark like old blood, and it's unsettling. 

"Alright," Coulson says, startling him from his musings. "Let's get this done."

**AVAVA**

It's a difficult hike.

They take Rogers' truck and Bucky's bronco up the trails as far as they can, out of the center of town and down an old dirt logging track until they're off-roading through mud and broken shale and tall, wind-whipped pines. Once they can go no further, they abandon the vehicles and head out on foot, up through the heavily wooded terrain toward the SHIELD. 

Clint and Bucky take the lead by unspoken agreement. If he had to put into words why it happened that way, he'd say they... had experience in this kind of thing - in Buck's case maybe too much. He can feel the magic of the SHIELD pulling at him as they hike higher and higher up the mountain, sharper and more rugged than the carved-out plane of the Hollow, and it tickles against his skin like static rippling through the fine hairs on his arms and the back of his neck. 

Clint scans the terrain restlessly as they move, a low, anxious feeling sitting heavy in the pit of his stomach. The search party is uncomfortably silent, Daisy loping ahead and ranging out as she lifts her head to scent the air, Stark cursing under his breath when the path becomes rocky. He does his best to find easy footholds, but he and Buck are used to this sort of thing, their minds and bodies trained to this sort of shit. They pull ahead easily, moving light and easy down the rocky outcropping toward the transparent gleam of the wall growing up out of the wood, until they come to the edge of a deep, jagged gorge, the rush of water thundering below. 

"Can you see it?" Clint asks, staring up at the wall with the same sense of overwhelming awe he'd felt the very first time he'd come on it. "Buck, can you..." 

"No," the vampire says, his voice low and cold. "But I can feel it." 

Clint stands there for several minutes as they wait for the rest of the group to catch up, his heart pounding in his chest. He's breathing shallowly, feels small, can do nothing but stare at the beautiful example of power and protection and trust before him. Bucky must have been telling the truth – he'd be teasing him if he wasn't at least a little bit affected too – but not even that thought can pull his attention away. 

The only thing that can accomplish that, apparently, is Coulson's hand on his forearm. 

"Clint?" 

He's _gleaming._

There's a shine burning from his center like the glow of lightning, tracks of silver curling around Clint's wrist where Coulson's fingertips had brushed against his skin. He can't breathe, his eyes are stuck on the face of the man before him, trapped by the gorgeous luminescence of the aura that has threaded itself into the roots of the SHIELD, the very earth at their feet. 

Coulson examines his face closely, frowning, but when Clint is unable to respond he moves off again, glancing back over his shoulder once before dropping his pack and crouching to unlace his boots. Clint manages to gather himself, takes several steps back to put himself at a respectful distance, though he isn't sure what he's about to see. Bucky follows, braces his feet and crosses his arms over his chest, waiting. 

They're both good at that. 

Feet bare, Coulson digs his toes into the soil and sinks down to the ground, places his hands at his sides and breathes. The glittering transparency of the SHIELD creeps forward and envelopes him, wraps around him close and fades into his skin like it's never been anything but a part of him. It's beautiful and peaceful and painful somehow, and Clint thinks it might be the most lovely thing he's ever witnessed, this simple, quiet communion. 

Time passes. 

He doesn't know how long. 

Could have been minutes, could have been hours, but he could've stood there watching Coulson breathe silver filigree forever. It crackles and bursts in the air around him like small fireworks, wraps around his limbs and muscles like vines, and dissipates beneath his skin like rainwater when he finally pushes to his feet. 

"You were right," he says, his voice hoarse like he's been shouting. "She didn't make it down." 

Clint feels his heart sink. 

He'd known that, know it in his bones, but hearing it, seeing the others know it... it's a heavy thing. Rogers and Stark grow somber, Daisy droops, and Coulson, Coulson actually stumbles, his face pale and his hands shaky when Clint reaches out to catch him. He sits him down on a large rock, takes the canteen Rogers hands over and uncaps it, watches as Phil sips it down, and just that easy he is back to Phil, none of them playing by their roles anymore. 

They're just four men and a girl, out looking for a lost soul. 

It takes them all a bit to regroup. Coulson gets his socks and his boots back on, splits a power bar with Rogers who looks a bit shaky himself. Clint's money is on low blood sugar and a sensitive stomach respectively, and Stark just looks like he wants a drink. Bucky's getting antsy, pacing and rumbling, spooking Daisy as he stomps back and forth past her little bed in the soft grass, and his teeth are showing beneath his lip. 

"Let's go," he snarls under his breath, only loud enough for Clint to hear, and really, he can't agree more. 

Nodding sharply, he leaps up onto the shale Bucky's climbed and follows him out, along the rocky outcropping at the edge of the gorge. It's a long drop – a slip or a trip and it's a wicked tumble down to the bottom, where white-water hisses angrily. Good place to knock somebody off, good place to get rid of a body, the natural trap of the terrain breaking up the protective barrier of the SHIELD, and he... 

"I don't like this." 

Clint startles so badly that only Bucky's quick reflexes save him from a twisted ankle, his steel fingers bruising around his bicep. Kate's voice has come out of thin air, weak and broken, and hits him in the chest like a wrecking ball. The girl is standing three steps behind them, far too transparent for Clint's liking, her arms wrapped tight around her ribs. 

"Kate," he breathes, shaking Bucky off and leaping over the rocks toward her. "Hey. What..." 

"I don't like this," she repeats, staring past him toward the gorge, shivering so hard he can see her outline shimmer. "Clint. Bucky, I..." 

"Whoa, hey, breathe girlie girl," he murmurs, coming to stand in front of her with his hands up, like he's going to pull her into a hug. "Come on now. What's wrong?" 

"I don't know," she whispers, eyes huge and dark and terrified. "I... Clint, I'm scared." 

The rest of the group has caught up with them – they're staring, Stark scanning the area with a small, box-like device, Daisy slinking around, sniffing the grass with her hair standing up all along the crest of her back - but Clint's captivated, a magnet to a metal filing. 

He literally can't pull himself away. 

"Scared of what kiddo?" he asks, swallowing hard, biting back the strange fear bubbling up in him at the sensation of being trapped. "Hey. Hey look at me. Darlin' you're already dead – what can hurt you now? Huh?" 

Kate chokes a laugh, a half-hysterical little giggle, then shakes her head. 

"What happens?" she asks nervously, "What happens when you..." 

"Don't know," he answers truthfully as Phil takes a cautious step towards him, his muscles burning with the odd sense of having locked up on him. "Never died myself, and Bucky won't talk about it. But... I think it must be... nice. For people like you." 

"People like me?" 

"Good people," he says simply. "Can you... I mean, do you think you..." 

Kate shakes her head, vehement and desperate. 

"No," she yelps, "No, I..." 

"Ok," Clint soothes, his hands making stupid, stroking motions through the air. "Ok. That's ok Katie-Cat, you don't have to." 

"We're close." 

"Dude, shut up!" Clint snaps, turning to glare at Bucky who's apparently decided to be a dick today. 

He's shocked to find him standing several yards away, staring down into the rocky gorge scarring the mountain, fear scrawled across his face plain enough for anyone to see. 

"Hawkeye..." 

"Shit," Clint mutters, turning sharply and risking his hand by grabbing Buck by the back of his tac vest, hauling him away from the edge. "Shit! Bucky!" 

The vampire blinks, practically trips when Clint shoves him down to sit in the dirt, then promptly starts hyperventilating. 

"Breathe idiot!" he snaps, shoving the vamp's head down between his knees. "Come on Buck, not the time buddy. In and out, yeah? Count 'em with me, - in, two three, four and out, two, three, four..." 

It takes a minute. Longer than it should really, considering he doesn't actually need the oxygen, but Clint figures the body remembers whether it needs to or not. Bucky's shaking and sweaty by the time he comes out of it, and fuck, Clint's seen him like this before. 

He knows what's waiting for them down in the bottom of that ravine. 

"I can't, I can't go down there," Bucky rasps, and beside him Kate whimpers, crouched on her knees and following their breathing exercises to the letter. "Barton..." 

"You ain't going buddy," Clint reassures him, gripping his shoulder as tight as human fingers will allow. "Ok? You're gonna stay up here and keep Katie-Cat company, and you're gonna wait for me to get back, just like old times, you hear?" 

Bucky doesn't answer, just swallows hard and stares toward the edge of the canyon where the earth drops away with the same, glazed-over horror that Kate had, the air sawing in and out of his lungs. Clint nods, more to himself than anybody because his two panicking charges aren't paying him any goddamned attention, then straightens up and goes back to where he and Bucky had dropped their packs. 

"What the hell was that?" Stark hisses, as he, Coulson, and Rogers all drop into a crouch at Clint's side, forming a little circle as he tips some climbing gear out of his bag. 

"I'll tell you later," Clint grits out, glancing back over his shoulder at the vampire and the ghost sitting silent and pale-faced in the grass. "Any of you fellas ever been rock-climbing?"


	23. Chapter 23

Turned out they _all_ had a little bit of experience climbing the rocky shale, thank god. 

Nice for _something_ to go easy. 

Strapping themselves into their harnesses, he, Coulson, Stark, and Rogers all drill their pinions into the top of the cliff edge and ease themselves over, rappelling slowly down the side of the cliff in a neat little line, hiking down where they can, letting the ropes take their weight where the surface is too sheer. Clint has to tamp down the urge to free-drop to the bottom in one long slide, bite back the impatience, and ends up taking the safer way with the rest of them, short, swinging hops that lower him down less than six feet at a time. 

It must be at least a hundred, a hundred and fifty feet to the bottom. 

It will take them a while to get there. 

"So," Stark calls from off to his left, and Clint grinds his teeth, the mere sound of his voice grating on his last nerve. "You want to give me a logical reason as to why your good buddy Barnes just totally lost his shit, after pretty much telling us where to go to find this girl?" 

"Tony!" Steve snaps from the far end of the line, but Clint just shakes his head, looks up at the edge of the cliff above them. 

"Wasn't just him Stark," he sighs heavily, letting out a little more line. "I'da dumped her up here too, if it were me. 

This answer doesn't seem to satisfy the man; there's a dark, accusatory silence coming back at him after that little revelation. If it was just Stark Clint would keep his mouth shut about it – it's Bucky's story, not his – but Rogers and even Coulson are quiet too, guilty curiosity showing in the set of their shoulders despite the tension in the ropes and harnesses letting them down the cliff. 

"Vamps can... sense death," he says carefully, easing his weight onto his feet and stepping slowly down a jagged bit of cliffside in deliberate counter-balance to the frustrated anger bubbling up in the pit of his stomach. "No secret. The army knew it just like everybody else, and they were happy to take advantage of it." 

"So what?" Stark sniffs coldly, and just like that Clint snaps, pushing off with his feet to swing across the rock-face and drop-kick the supposed genius in the ribs, sending him spinning widely away toward Steve with an offended yelp. 

"So they used him as a fucking cadaver dog, that's what!" he snarls, twirling around and around as he swings at the end of his rope, letting himself ride the low, pendulum arc back until he's being grabbed round the arm and steadied by Coulson's strong, even grip. "We worked black ops – you know how many _pieces_ he was sent out to bring back? He was already PTSD as fuck; you think that helped? What the hell is your problem anyway?!" 

"Stark's parents were slaughtered by vampires," Coulson says flatly in his ear as Clint stares Stark down, watches the man's aura spark amber and gold, like striking hot metal. "Europeans, but..." 

Clint laughs. 

It's a loud, dark, ugly thing, and Stark's face goes flat and cold like an iron mask as he struggles toward him, held back only by Steve's arm banded tight around his waist. 

"You think that's funny?" he snarls, eyes flashing. "You think it's _funny_ that those filthy bloodsuckers murdered two innocent people?" 

Clint goes numb, glares at the idiot with an overwhelming wave of contempt threatening to drown him. 

"What do you think they did to Bucky?" 

Shrugging Coulson off sharply, he opens the handbrake on his rope and gives in to his urges, riding the zipline all the way to the bottom, the wind whistling in his ears.

**AVAVA**

It's a rare man that can render Tony Stark speechless.

Phil knows it's not the time or the place to be turned on, dangling over the edge of a cliff a hundred or so feet above a rushing river, on his way down to locate what is sure to be the skeletal remains of a young girl, but that knowledge doesn't seem to help. 

Sighing, frowning to himself, he settles his weight more firmly into his harness, the strain around his upper thighs a comforting bite that settles him. 

That could have gone better. 

Taking a deep breath, he convinces himself to look down past his feet into the gaping chasm of the canyon below. 

He hates heights. 

By focusing on the small, dark smudge of Clint's leather tac vest below, he just manages not to puke. 

The ropes beside him wag and waver as Barton unclips himself and ties off the loose ends, having apparently come to a safe landing after the wild escape flight he'd taken down to the bottom. The shape of him bobs and weaves around for a moment, pacing back and forth, and Phil can practically hear the muttered cursing, before he climbs carefully over the rocks toward the river's edge. 

Time to get his own ass in gear. 

"Let's move," he growls, refusing to look in Tony's direction. He can hear Steve talking to the genius quietly, and knows he should say something, _anything,_ but he doesn't know what. 

He'd known that Stark's parents were killed by vampires when he was a young teen – hell everybody knew. As he carefully stepped out from the cliff and started to lower himself down the rock face once again, he mentally reviewed what he knew about the case. 

It had happened years ago, miles from Downer's Hollow, in New York City, the center of American Urbana. Stark had been young, barely a teenager, and no matter what the rumors had been about his father Howard Stark, Phil knew he'd loved his parents. Their deaths had hit upper society like a wrecking ball, and god knows what it would be like to learn of your parents' murder on the nightly news, but that was what had happened. 

Phil can't remember the exact details of the case he'd looked into on taking the position as the Sheriff and primary High Druid of Downer's Hollow. The Starks had been attending some sort of a charity event that night; dark, rainy. There's speculation, particularly strong in his own mind, about whether or not the family's hired security were in on the disaster, because they were nowhere to be found that night, nor any night after. Howard and Maria Stark had left through the private exits at the back of the hotel they'd been hosted at and had been found massacred on the street twenty minutes later by horrified party-goers. 

Witnesses had said that it was two European vampires that had done it, two deathly-white males who had bared their fangs in the harsh light of the opened doors and fled into the storm. Those two men, those two undead had never been found, nor had they ever taken any credit for the kill in the world's dark underground. Rumor had it that Howard Stark had been working on an altered super-serum, one that would reverse the effects of vampirism, and had paid the price for it. 

Phil's of the opinion that Tony was the one who suffered most. 

He still talks about his father sometimes as if the man were a god, about his mother as if she were a saint. He had gone down a dark path for a while, drinking, gambling, taking risks before he'd found himself in the Hollow. Phil still isn't sure how this tiny, hidden mountain town manages to draw the people who need it most, but there was no doubt Stark had been in need when he'd come crashing – quite literally – into their lives. 

Nearly to the bottom, Phil takes a chance in glancing up and to his left, at Stark as he makes his own careful way down the cliff. He's not a hateful man by far, indeed, he can be painfully generous in his misguided quest to buy companionship and affection, and terribly loving to those who have earned their way into his inner circle. He has always been uneasy around the 'bloodbreeds,' but this is the coldest and cruelest Phil has ever seen him be. 

He's afraid. 

Very little else, barring confusion, ever shuts the genius up. 

Phil lets out a painfully relieved sigh as his feet hit the ground, and he's ashamed to find that his legs shake just a bit as he stands, takes his weight out of the harness again. He very pointedly doesn't think about how far they have to go to get back up to the top, how they'll have to do it, what they'll... what they'll be carrying. Unbuckling himself, he ties off his ropes next to Clint's and heads down river toward the small, dark shape of the figure crouched there, the sounds of Stark and Rogers following close behind him. 

Clint is perched on top of a pile of boulders, resting in an easy crouch that reminds Phil quite sharply that the man is a sniper. The rock surface is slick with moss and river spray, but his boots are sure and steady as he scans the terrain, his eyes narrowed, distinct purple lenses nowhere to be found. He's angry, Phil can see it in the curve of his spine, and it feels like it's directed at him even though it's not. 

As much as he likes Tony, in a begrudging, antagonistic sort of way, this is the first time he feels the need to apologize for him. 

"He's afraid of what he doesn't understand," he says quietly, coming to stand just in Clint's line of sight. "Which isn't much. The experience, it... rattles him. I know they aren't good ones, but he does have his reasons." 

Clint doesn't respond. 

"It's just, your friend," Phil rushes, suddenly filled with a strange and unsettling desperation, "Barnes. He's... different. Different than he should be, different than we thought he was. Different since _you_ came. And with Kate..." 

Nothing. 

"Clint _please,"_ he urges over the colossal noise of the river as Steve and Tony come up beside him, "Say something." 

"There's a body on the other side of the snare."

**AVAVA**

It's loud down here, too loud.

The water pounding against the rocks, rushing by like it's got some place to go, the wind whistling down the canyon... 

Even for him it's too loud. 

So he tunes it out, stops listening, until all the noise and crash and holler fades away, leaves only the burning anger behind. Anger at Stark, anger at himself, anger at Bucky and Steve and even Kate. Doesn't make sense, he knows that, somewhere in the back of his mind, but there's meaning in it, and if he's to understand it he has to feel it. 

Something in him knows that too. 

Instead of fighting it, he lets it bubble, grow low and dark and cool in the pit of his belly as he climbs the rocks, his boots steady on the slippery outcropping. The sound fades and the anger grows and everything is sharp and clear and bright, and he thinks he can see for miles, like before. 

Before, when it was just him and Buck and her, when she had set him free from the earth and all of this... 

Clint squeezes his eyes shut hard, opens them again and looks, really looks, for the first time in a very long time. Violence leaves a mark on the world, as sure as it must have left a mark on that SHIELD, a dark stain that hangs heavy in the air like fog. It's a thick, murder black, not matte like the warlock, but a shimmering, viscous ebony shot through with glittering green and blue, motor oil in the sun, slick and liquid. 

It makes his stomach roll. 

Two hundred yards down the river, maybe two hundred and fifty, there's a snare of dead trees fallen across the river and run down it, a dangerous tangle of dead wood forming a natural bridge across. It's too high over the rocks to have dammed up the river – it rushes away beneath it in a deadly rumble against the bed of the canyon. 

"There's a body on the other side of the snare." 

He doesn't know when Coulson came on him, doesn't know how far behind Stark and Rogers are. He gets a sort of... tunnel vision sometimes. 

In the moment he feels sort of... stuck. 

Heavy. 

_Grounded._

He wishes he were somewhere up high. 

He doesn't wait for them, doesn't wait for a plan, just jumps to it. He thanks god for his time in the circus, all those years learning from the other performs, the tiny Russian twins who taught him to climb up to the swings and the highwire. He leaps onto the snare with all the ease of his old performances, finds the solid places and crosses it quick and light. He's already dropping off the other side when he realizes what he's done, just how risky it was. Stark and Rogers are staring after him pale-faced and horrified, and Coulson is looking grim and slightly green as he scooches across the snare on his knees and his butt. 

It's hardly an easy crossing, no matter what Clint made it look like. 

Being on the other side isn't any easier. 

Heaving a sigh, Clint closes his eyes and shakes his head before turning to the body he'd spotted lying in the basin formed by the upturned root bed of a pine. 

He's expecting a corpse, bones, picked clean by carrion and bleached by the sun. 

Instead, it looks like Kate had just lay down in the shade and shelter of the tree and gone to sleep. 

Clint feels like he's been sucker-punched, like something has banded tight around his chest to stop him from breathing. All the blood and gore he'd seen, all the war and carnage, somehow this is worse. His hand actually comes up from his side as if to wake her, to touch her shoulder, and it makes his stomach turn so hard he's afraid he'll be sick. 

Rogers is. 

The others have made it across the snare and Clint can just see him from the corner of his eye, doubled over and retching into a bunch of nearby ferns. Stark looks like he's only just holding on to his lunch, and Coulson, well, Coulson just looks horrified. 

"Jesus," he breathes, taking a step closer, sinking slowly to his knees at the edge of the bowl, his fingers sinking desperately into the soft earth like claws. "Have you ever seen..." 

Clint's jaw ticks, the dark, angry feeling surging up in his chest. 

"Yeah."


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING! - Bloodletting with a knife to feed a vampire. Clint also talks about having cut his wrist quite badly in the past to force Bucky to feed from him.
> 
> If self harm or references to cutting are a trigger, please proceed with care!

They don't speak to each other as they work, save for a few clipped instructions from Clint and Coulson both. Rogers sits on a rock with his head between his knees, color poor and breathing worse as he tries to get himself together, while Stark opens his pack and releases the tiny, flying drone he'd brought along and sets it to circling, scanning Kate's body and everything surrounding it within a three-hundred-foot radius. Once it's done, they carefully slip paper sacks over Kate's hands and lift her gently into a body bag. 

It's fucked up, it's _really_ fucked-up, but they don't have a stretcher, or a gurney, or any other way to... 

It seems stupid to do it, but he touches her wrist as he tucks her arm into the bag, checks for a pulse. There's nothing there, no heartbeat, but she's not cold or clammy or decomposing either. Clint looks up toward the top of the canyon, where he'd left Kate's ghost sitting next to Bucky, and doesn't look down as Coulson zips the bag closed over her face. 

It's difficult, getting her back across the snag. He and Coulson try to carry her between them, but with Clint going backwards and Coulson not nearly as steady on his feet, they practically all go over before Clint's had enough. With a mumbled _'sorry kiddo,'_ he hefts Kate's body up and over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carries her back to the other side. 

He doesn’t watch or wait for the others to scramble after. They’ll have to manage on their own – Clint’s mind is spinning too fast for him to even catch a breath. Laying Kate down at the base of the cliff near the rope lines – because it _is_ Kate, not just Kate’s body, _oh fuck_ – Clint steps back and cranes his neck, narrows his eyes and tries to see. 

"Buck!" 

No response – either because Bucky's still caught in the throes of his PTSD or because the sound of Clint's hollering is getting swept away with the river. 

_Damn it!_

Snarling under his breath, Clint turns to Stark and holds out his hand, palm flat. 

"Gimme a screwdriver." 

The leprechaun narrows his eyes, waiting for an explanation or a 'please,' but screw him, what kind of luck has he been so far? Clint can play this game all day, and fully intends to, but Steve shoulder-checks Tony hard from behind and snatches his bag from his hands, tossing it to Clint. 

Shooting Stark a dirty look, he kneels down in the dirt and pulls his quiver from his back, selecting a grappling arrow and a couple of others he can cannibalize parts from. The genius's curiosity eventually gets the best of him and he takes a step closer, peering over Clint's shoulder as he works, quickly and efficiently. 

"What are you doing?" 

"Improvising," Clint replies shortly. 

Tightening the last bit of metal, he balances the altered grappling arrow on two fingers, tests the weight. It's heavier than he'd like, but that's one of the reasons he works out so hard. If he keeps his upper body strength up, he can keep the poundage on his bow up too. Higher poundage means a bigger payload – a longer reach and the ability to carry something like the arrow he's just rigged up with a lightweight pulley system. 

Trotting away from the cliff-face back toward the river, he loads the arrow and draws, finds a good tree (the only tree) at the top that will work, and fires. It sails slowly, rope streaming out behind like ribbons, and for a minute he nearly panics thinking it won't reach – because _that's_ the kind of luck Tony Stark seems to carry with him – but it makes it up and out of the gorge a heart stopping second later, drilling its way into the side of the tree with a solid, stable _thunk_ that Clint can feel in his bones. 

The nylon ropes trailing from the pulley flutter in the breeze that's picked up through the canyon, floating back toward the cliff-side to hang, waiting. Coulson moves with him, no hesitation, set to the grim task, and together they wrap one of the ropes through the body bag and around as securely as they can, old circus knots holding true when he pulls them tight. Stepping back, Clint slips the free rope through the rigging on his belt and prepares to heave. 

“Clint.” 

Blinking, he looks over at Phil who is pale and wide-eyed and staring, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s nearly on the verge of hyperventilating, his chest rising in falling in huge, too-fast gulps. Squeezing his eyes shut tight, he drops the rope and plucks out his aids, pressing his hands flat over his ears until the only thing he knows is the dark and the silence. 

A minute, that’s all he needs, just a minute to reset... 

Warm hands wrap around his and bring them gently down, then cup his face and brush at the tears on his cheeks. The familiar tingle that comes from the druid’s touch is a low, warm simmer now, comfort and home, and it’s not something he has the wherewithal to examine too closely right now. Blinking his eyes open again, he keeps his head ducked until he’s got his shades on, purple lenses filtering out enough of the external stimuli around him that he can think. 

“I’m ok,” he chokes, feeling like he’s gargled with gravel. 

_Let me help._

It’s not true sign language, but Clint understands Phil’s vague hand gestures perfectly, which means there must be magic at work. He doesn’t mind, in fact, at the back of his head he does a little fist pump because he _knew it,_ but for now it will have to wait. He needs his senses up and running, so he shoves the aids back in. 

“I’ll pull,” he says, stepping back and taking up the rope again. “I need you to anchor the tails. Be ready to catch her if I drop the line. When we get her to the top we’ll need to tie it off – I don’t give a fuck about the rope.” 

Stark and Rogers are making faces, no doubt disconcerted by Clint’s use of certain tenses, but they keep their mouths shut and let him and Coulson work. The first heave actually feels good as the pulley system hauls Kate’s body up off the ground, because it’s real and steadying and he knows for sure that he’s actually doing something useful. Halfway up the cliff that changes, even though he knows it’s all in his head. Her weight feels impossible, his arms burn and his shoulders ache, and it’s not real because none of it’s really real. 

Behind him Coulson starts to pick up some of the slack and he shakes himself out of his anxieties, focusing on the problem in his hands instead of the one he’s about to face in the near future. Another two minutes of sweating and bag dangles high above their heads, just below the edge of the canyon. 

He leaves it there. 

He doesn’t want either of them to see, even though he knows they'll have to, knows it’s going to get worse. 

Phil gets the end of the rope anchored off around another fallen tree trunk and Clint gives it a twang, pleased when it holds, barely enough slack to vibrate. It’s just time left now, hiking back to the cars, carrying not-so-kind-of dead weight, but it’s almost as if a clock has started ticking, an hour glass has started running down. All four of them strap into their climbing gear without a word and start a controlled rush for the top, but of course it takes twice as long going up as it did coming down. It’s a rougher climb than it looks too, and Clint scrapes up his hands in his haste, bangs a knee and breaks a couple of fingernails that are already bitten short. Halfway to the top he has to pause, to lean his forehead against the shale and breathe through that low-simmering panic. 

Phil’s hand on his shoulder centers him. 

“I’m good,” he says again, stupidly, and Phil – god bless him – doesn’t argue the point, just nods and waits for Clint to start off again before following after. 

He rolls over the lip of the canyon with a greater sense of relief than he thinks he’s ever felt in his life, flopping flat out on his back and panting for breath. He’s sweating, but up here at the top of the gorge it’s colder, and goosebumps immediately begin to prickle across his skin. Dragging himself up into a sitting position, he looks around, sees Phil kneeling next to him and Steve leaning over the edge to haul Stark up onto solid ground. 

They all made it, even Kate. 

She and Bucky are staring off into the nothing, at the edge of the cliff where the ropes disappear over the side. 

The vampire’s hands are fisted at his sides, his chest heaving and his eyes bright gold, and Kate looks even paler than a ghost ought to be. There’s nothing he can do, no words he can offer either of them that wouldn’t be flat-out lies, so he claps a hand on Phil’s shoulder and jerks his chin toward the tree that still acts a counterbalance to the unbearable weight of their find. Together they stand and take hold of the ropes, guide the bag gently up and over, and as they lower it slowly to the ground a sharp, feminine cry can be heard by all. 

Head snapping up, Clint is horrified to find that Bucky has gone as stiff as a board, locked up like he’s been hit with electricity. 

It was Kate that they had heard sob, Kate, who is walking between two worlds and who had cried out at the sight of the body-bag containing the now-empty shell she had left behind. She’s turned and buried her face in Bucky’s chest as if to hide, her hands wrapped tight around his metal wrist, and the edges of her form shimmer like light through water. 

“Kate!” Clint yelps, leaping to his feet and skidding to her side, his hands up to grab her away but not daring to touch. “Kate look at me! Let go!” 

The girl flinches, hunches her shoulder and leans even further into Bucky’s chest, her forehead only just dipping inside as the vampire’s entire body jolts, the color draining from his face, and Clint swallows down his own heart in an effort to soften her fear. 

“Hey, come on now girly-girl, you’re ok,” he promises, short of breath as he restrains the panic in his voice, the need to shout. “I promise. This is a good thing Katie-Cat, but you gotta let go ok, you don’t wanna hurt Buck. We need him.” 

Sucking in a sharp gasp, Kate rears back and lifts her head, horror crossing her face. She lets go, stumbles backward, and as soon as the contact between them ends Bucky crumples to the ground, coughing like he’s trying to rid his body of his lungs entirely. Retching, heaving, he claws at his throat with his flesh-and-blood hand, all long, razor sharp nails, and Clint immediately lunges for him, wraps his arms around him from behind and pins his arms down to his sides. 

“Get off me!” Bucky chokes, trying to throw him. “I can’t… I can’t…” 

“You don’t need to, idiot!” Clint snarls, riding out the thrashing even as his elbow gets smashed against a rock. “Bucky stop!” 

With one great wrench he heaves them over so that he’s got Bucky pressed face down in the dirt, knee in the small of his back, one hand at the nape of his neck and the other wrapped around his wrist. He fights for a minute more, boots scrabbling, but then the energy seems to be sapped from him and he sags against the earth, tremors running over him from head to toe. 

“I can’t feel my arm,” he whimpers, shivering like he can actually feel the cold. “Barton. Clint, I can’t feel my…” 

“It’s still there,” Clint grits out, letting go of Bucky’s wrist to pet the back of his head awkwardly. “It’s still there buddy, I promise. Kate must’a just… froze you out a little. We’ll get you fixed up again, I promise.” 

They breathe together, until Clint feels like the panic is locked up safe again and climbs off of his friend, rolls him over and drags him up out of memories of sand and blood and mortar. He makes it all the way to his feet before he wobbles and falls again, his knees giving out underneath him. He doesn’t even manage to catch himself, just collapses into the dirt as weak as a newborn kitten, the metal arm that Kate had grabbed onto useless and completely unresponsive. 

“Shit, _shit,”_ Clint hisses, dragging the vamp over to the base of the tree to prop him up, abruptly assisted by Coulson, who appears out of nowhere to help lift Bucky’s god-damn undead weight. “Snap out of it Buck! Kinda need your help here.” 

“Barton, I don’t… feel so good,” he mumbles, and Clint squeezes his eyes shut against the flashback, against the memory of the last time Sergeant James Buchannon Barnes had uttered that exact same sentence. 

“You’re ok,” he insists, kneeling down next to him and stripping off his belt, wrapping it tight around his own bicep. “Just need a little bit of the red sauce. Come on buddy, let’s see them pearly whites.” 

Bucky growls under his breath, his eyes fluttering shut as he rocks his head back and forth against the tree holding him up. 

“No...” 

“No? Fuck _no,”_ Clint argues, half-hysteric as he turns his forearm up under the vampire’s nose. “We don’t have time for you self-deprecating bullshit here Barnes. We got an honest-to-jesus demon come to town; I _need_ you...” 

Bucky’s eyes snap open and there’s terrified recognition under the fever chill that’s latched on to him, but he still manages to push Clint’s arm away, tiny pinpricks of blood breaking out across his face, heavy on his forehead and his upper lip, black where it starts seeping from his pores like sweat. 

“Just fed off you…” he pants, “You can’t…” 

“Then bite Stark!” Clint snarls, ripping the belt off his arm and surging to his feet, ignoring the yip of fearful protest behind him. “You know you want to. Besides, you think _he’s_ gonna be any help in a fight if that thing shows up here?” 

“Barton…” 

“No, we don’t have time for this,” Clint declares, going back to his knees and grabbing Bucky’s shoulder, because they need to get the literal-hell out of here. “Open your fucking mouth!” 

“…Make… mmm…” 

Clint goes dead still. 

Son of a bitch, thinks he won’t do it? 

He’s done it before. 

Bucky ought to remember that. 

Jerking the knife from the holster on Bucky’s thigh, he places the point of the blade on his wrist and takes a deep breath, knowing that he needs to cut quick and deep if he wants to force… 

“He can have mine!” 

Clint stops, a single drop of blood rolling down the inside of his wrist, past the old, barely-there scar from the last time he’d had to attempt to kill himself to stop Bucky from doing the same. Not really of course, but the vampire was stubborn and had been headed to a real grave at the time, refusing perfectly good blood on moral grounds. Clint, who had no use for such things, had stupidly slashed his wrist, thinking at the time that he was enough of a friend to Bucky that the guy would seal the wound up for him before he let him bleed out. 

Bucky later said it was only because it was a waste of spilled blood, but Clint had never believed him. 

The guy had never refused an offer after that, not till now. 

“He can have mine,” Steve repeats, looking pale and a little afraid, but sure. “It’s ok, I…” 

Bucky’s still shaking his head no, but his eyes are starting to roll back in their sockets too, and his fangs have dropped without his permission, so Clint just grabs Steve’s wrist and drags him down to his knees, takes his hand and rests it on his thigh. 

“Don’t move,” he commands, and then, very carefully, he draws the blade across the inside of Steve’s forearm, just below his elbow where thick pads of muscle protect the larger veins. 

The man grits his teeth, sucks in a breath but does as he's told and doesn't flinch. Bucky is whuffling and growling to himself now, eyes flicking wildly beneath his lids as he lolls back against the tree, a broken rag-doll. Knee-walking them closer, Clint keeps a tight grip on Steve's wrist and drags him closer, holds his bleeding arm over the vampire's face. His resistance lasts all of three seconds before his instincts take over, and he latches on without even knowing what he's doing, sealing his lips around the wound and moaning like a whore. 

Steve looks a little scandalized but Clint just laughs weakly, ruffles the hair on the top of Bucky's head with exhausted relief and gets to his feet again. He's panting himself, feels rather wobbly, and the others don't look that much better - Stark watches on with a kind of fascinated disgust, Coulson has his arms wrapped tightly around himself, his aura a pale, washed-out, dingy grey, and Kate, oh Kate... 

"It's ok," he says when he reaches her side, sitting down next to her in the dirt and placing his hand on her shoulder, the chill sinking deep into his knuckles. 

Kate is wrapped up tight in a little ball on the ground her face buried in her arms, and she's shaking, both in body and in... plasma. 

Whatever the hell she is. 

He's only seen this once before, ok, and he was kinda busy running for his life at the time. 

"It's gonna be ok. Come on Katie, look, Buck's perkin' up already." 

Kate sobs a wet, shaky sound and lifts her head, and it's true – Bucky is looking better. There's color back in his face and his eyes are open again, even if they're completely unfocused, and he's making a sort of chewing motion along Steve's arm. There's a mild grimace on his face, not enough to suggest that Bucky's actually gnawing on him, but there's blood rolling down the vampire's chin. 

Good, for now. 

Probably not so good later. 

"I'm dead," Kate chokes out, staring at Bucky, vibrating with chill under Clint's palm. "I'm dead in that bag and I almost killed..." 

"No you didn't," Clint says sharply, because she needs to understand this, they all do. "He's already dead Kate, you didn't almost kill him. But you can't touch him again, do you understand? You can't, because you're not really dead either."


	25. Chapter 25

His declaration is not well received. 

Kate gasps and disappears, Coulson turns his head to look at him so quickly that Clint hears his neck crack, and Rogers twitches and voices his confusion so loudly that he startles Bucky back to coherence, so much that he blinks and jerks away, stares down at the arm in front of him like he's never seen an arm at all before and scrambles to his feet. 

He's half a mile off before any of them can blink, and Clint groans out loud. 

"Stupid, stubborn, sunuva..." 

"Let's go." 

It's Coulson who says it, the Sheriff stepping up to get things moving again, and Clint is glad of it. There's too much, too many things to go wrong in the very near future if they don't step quite carefully, and all of them, the whole lot, are a bunch of stomping, lumbering, blind _idiots..._

"Demons aren't real." 

"Fuck off," Clint mutters, Kate's weight heavy on his shoulder as he and Stark heft the body-bag between them. 

Coulson's busy wrapping Steve's arm with a bandage – oh, _well done_ Barnes, didn't even seal the guy up before you bolted – leaving the so-called genius to bear the burden alongside him. 

"Trust me, I'd much rather," Stark grumbles, trying to find a comfortable way to carry the load. "But demons aren't real. They're fairytales..." 

"Why, because they were originally Christian figures?" Clint growls. "Jesus Stark, you live in a town composed entirely of mythical creatures, and a demon is one step too far?" 

"I'm an _atheist,"_ he says sharply, jostling their grim baggage. "I believe in science, what I can see and feel and take apart. Magic, magic isn’t _faith._ It’s just... more complicated science." 

"I’ve been called the World’s Greatest Marksman since I was twelve," Clint counters flatly. "I've seen things not even your brain could think up, and I'm telling you, I've seen this before." 

That seems to shut him up for a while, but Clint has ne delusions that he's let the issue go. No, it's more like he's given the man a bit of gristle to chew on, and he's tight-lipped and tense with it as they hike their way back to the vehicles. Bucky stalks along ahead of them, just keeping within shouting distance, and Daisy the Labrador dances nervously around his feet, keeping him company. Clint wonders if she can smell the anxiety on him, the fear and the hurt and the confusion, and he wishes for once in his life the guy would just... relax. 

He gets it ok, the life of a vampire's not exactly easy. They don't find welcome in a lot of places, but damn, it's not like the guy is a rogue. It's not like he runs around killing every night, spilling the blood of innocents. He doesn't have that guilt to shoulder or defend, and Rogers had _offered_ him a vein. 

It was pretty damn clear he liked Buck, at least a little bit, what with the way he was frowning and flicking concerned glances Bucky's way. 

Clint sighs out loud, knowing he's probably going to have to do something about that. 

Maybe tie them up together again... 

They’ve got shit timing anyway - he’s got bigger and badder things to worry about. 

They make it back to the vehicles with little incident and Clint knows it’s only a strange attachment to Kate that’s kept Bucky around. Crouched on the roof of his Bronco, he pointedly ignores them as they carefully load her body into the back of Steve’s truck, watching the trees around them. It would be weird and awkward as hell if Clint didn’t feel the same thing Bucky must be feeling, that slick feeling on the nape of your neck that says _trap._ Stepping up onto the back tire, he climbs up beside him and takes off his sunglasses, turns a quick circle. 

“Anything?” he asks in Russian, and Bucky shoots him back a short, sharp negative. 

But there’s more than one kind of nothing. 

Nothing specific, nothing solid, hell, even too much nothing, and Clint’s not trusting that shit. 

“Let’s get the hell out of here.” 

Bucky nods and swings down into the truck, starting the engine up with a growl that echoes off the trees. Steve and Stark stand there in the grass a minute, looking confused and lost, but Clint just shakes his head minutely. 

Later. 

Steve opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, then thinks the better of it and gets into his own truck, starts it up. Coulson catches Clint’s eye before shoving Stark over into the middle of the bench seat, wedging himself into the little cab where he’d rode in with Clint and Bucky. 

“We’ll take her in to Banner’s,” he says through the open window. “Doc’s the closest thing we’ve got to a coroner.” 

“We’ll meet you there,” Clint replies, then he steps up to the side of the truck and squeezes Phil’s hand where it hangs out the window, the tingle between them watery and weak. “Thank you.” 

Phil flicks a glance at Bucky over Clint’s shoulder, mouth grim. 

“Settle him,” he advises. “It may not be good. He’s going to catch some of that, and the better he handles it the better it will be for him.” 

Clint nods his understanding and slaps the roof of Rogers’ truck, gets it moving. Daisy looks up at him with big, liquid eyes as it rolls past, lying down in the bed next to the... the body bag. 

Aw, hell. 

“Let’s go,” Clint barks as he climbs into the passenger seat, and it says a lot that Bucky doesn’t bite his head off for that. 

The silence is heavy between them, a loaded gun, but Clint’s suddenly so pissed he doesn't give a damn. This wasn’t what he’d signed up for, coming out here, and he doesn’t... _regret_ coming so much as he regrets that he had to. Things are getting more dangerous and more complicated by the minute, and Bucky isn’t helping. 

“Tell the supersoldier you like him,” he finally says, sharp and hard and serious as they come down off the trail and turn onto the road that will lead them back to town. “And stop being such a fucking baby. He likes you back, and he clearly doesn’t give a good god-damn that you’re a biter.” 

Bucky doesn’t respond, just flips on his turn signal way harder than necessary, pulling onto main street. Anybody would think his eyes were on the road, but Clint can tell he’s glaring daggers at the back of Rogers’ head through the windshield, and he punches him hard on the shoulder for it. 

“Knock it off,” he warns, as Bucky snarls and flashes his eyes at him, shows him his fangs. “Damn it Buck, we don’t need any more problems right now, and you’re the easiest one to solve. Apologize for being a dick, thank him for saving your ass back there, and _tell him_ you like him!” 

“Fuck you,” Bucky mutters, guiding the Bronco around behind the little grocery store and pulling into a spot across the lot from where Rogers is backing up to the door of what Clint assumes is their clinic. “You don’t know that, and you didn’t have any right to put his fucking blood in my mouth Barton.” 

Clint freezes. 

If he had the room inside the truck, he would’ve bitch-slapped Bucky right across the face for that. 

“Shut your mouth,” he hisses, and Bucky actually jerks back a little, stares at him like he’d forgotten exactly what Clint is capable of and has only just been reminded. “You shut your fucking mouth Barnes. Rogers consented and if you think for one fucking minute I’m gonna let you die because of some fucked up sense of un-deserving, self-loathing _bullshit_ you‘re outta your god damn mind.” 

Wrenching the door open, he jumps down onto the hard-packed earth outside and slams it behind him, hard enough to make his ears ache. Stark, Rogers, and Coulson all startle from where they’re standing grouped up around the tailgate, and Clint stalks in their direction, but Bucky’s out of Bronco and spinning him around by the arm before he even makes it ten yards. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, before Clint can open his mouth to tear him a new one. “I didn’t mean it like that. You know I don’t...” 

“I _know,”_ Clint growls, twisting his wrist free to heel-punch Bucky square in the chest, his steel arm swinging limply at his side. “But for fuck’s sake Bucky, what are you so damned scared of? That you’ll somehow manage to scare him off with your sparkling personality, or that he’ll actually want to stick around?” 

Bucky doesn’t answer, just stares at Clint with unreadable gold eyes, and that’s more than answer enough. 

“Don’t be alone tonight,” Clint says, a plea and a warning. “I don’t care what you have to do, but don’t be alone tonight. Not after all that. Promise.” 

“You plan on being somewhere?” Bucky asks in a half-choked voice, and it’s the poor attempt at teasing that lets Clint know they’re ok. 

“I’m not sure,” he says, turning to look over his shoulder at them men standing behind them, the druid who looks like he could shatter at any moment. “But I think I might be... needed elsewhere. But Buck, I don’t want you...” 

“I’ll figure something out,” he says with a shrug, gruff and casual. “If I... If I tell him, we’ll... probably have some shit to talk about.” 

Clint nods, then, because he can't not, grabs Bucky around the shoulders and hugs him tight in a brief, very manly hug. 

“Come on,” he says, his own throat tight as he lets the grumbling vampire go. “Let’s get this over with.”

**AVAVA**

Turns out the town doctor, Bruce Banner, is a berserker. 

Clint’s glad he’s not helping carry Kate’s body when they step through the back door of the clinic, because he very nearly chokes on the smell of _bear_ when he steps inside. 

It’s not a real smell of course, just the idea of it hanging in the air, all deep and strong and musty, and then a small-ish man with a mop of curly hair and wire-rimmed glasses comes around the corner and Clint startles so bad he steps back into Bucky’s chest. 

He’s got a quiet, unassuming way about him if you don’t know what to look for. A way of moving that’s particularly cautious. Here, like this, leading the lot of them deeper into his little hospital and instructing them to a bed where they lay out Kate’s body, he seems calm and unflappable. Clint though, Clint knows what berserkers can do. He’s seen them at war, watched the battlefield from on-high as they fell to fits of rage and frenzy, destroying everything in their path. They howl and roar like animals, froth and fight amongst themselves, and very little can be done to stop them. 

They’re... kind of awesome actually. 

Clint marvels at the warm welcome Stark gives the man after the way he had treated Bucky, but just from looking at him he can guess that the good doctor hides it rather well. 

“Where did you find her?” he asks quietly as he quickly pulls on a pair of latex gloves, cuffs snapping around his wrists. 

“In the gulch on the northeastern side of the town,” Coulson says, all stiff-and-proper Sheriff, and Clint can actually see how much that costs him, the very _life_ draining out of his aura with every word. “On the far side of the river.” 

Banner nods and takes hold of the body bag's zipper tab, looks around once like he’s waiting for some or all of them to leave. He seems strangely approving when no one does, taking firm hold and sliding the bag open slowly and smoothly, peeling back the sides to reveal Kate inside. 

No one gasps. 

Clint will give them all that much credit. 

It’s not what one expects when opening a body bag, to see a young woman lying inside looking pink and vital. There’s a warmth and an... _elasticity_ to her complexion that defies the undead condition – Clint's seen enough of it to know that you tend to get... _slippage_ when the soul’s no longer connected to the body – but she’s not quite alive either. 

“Ever seen anything like this before Brucie?” Stark asks as he and Banner each lean over the body, taking the paper bag off of Kate’s left hand having donned some gloves of his own. 

“Honestly, no,” the man answers, sounding terribly troubled by that fact as he puts stethoscope into his ears and presses it to Kate’s chest. “She must've been dead for days, _and_ left to the elements; there should be some sign of...” 

“She’s not dead.” 

Once again, all eyes are on Clint, even Daisy who sits droopy-eared and sorry-eyed at his feet. 

“I’m sorry Mr. Barton,” Banner says slowly, letting the end of the stethoscope fall and taking Kate’s wrist in his hands to check for a pulse. “But she has no heartbeat. Miss Bishop is...” 

He goes deathly still when Clint grabs the end of the stethoscope and turns to press it to Bucky’s chest. The vampire scowls at him, unimpressed, but Clint just stares at the doctor, one eyebrow arched defiantly. He frowns, looks between the vampire and the body on the table before sighing and taking the earpieces out, wrapping it around his neck. 

“Point taken,” he accedes, “But she hasn’t been turned. She would be awake already if she had, or burned to nothing from the sun...” 

“Yeah, thanks for the bio lesson doc,” Bucky mutters, rolling his eyes, and across the bed, Steve barks a laugh before clapping a hand over his mouth, horrified. 

“Hmm, yes, well...” Banner mumbles, but his cheeks have pinked just a little and that’s kind of adorable considering what a badass this guy must be in a fight. “To be honest, I'm not sure what else I’m looking at here. I can’t think of anything that could possibly do this to a human being. Or anything else for that matter. Tony?” 

“Nothing,” the genius says sharply, looking up from where he’s taking careful scrapings from under Kate’s nails to glare at Clint over her body. “There’s _nothing_ else that can do this. Nothing _real_ anyway.” 

“So much for what you can see and feel and take apart,” Clint scoffs. “Giving up on your science already?” 

“I...” 

“You said you’ve seen this before?” Coulson interrupts neatly, cutting Stark off before he can work himself up into a froth. 

“Him and me both,” Bucky rumbles, staring down at Kate’s face quietly. “In Guam, when we...” 

“Think if I kiss me, I’ll wake up?” 

“Damn it!” Clint yelps, jumping so high he nearly hits the ceiling, cutting Bucky off mid-sentence. “Cut that out! You got a twisted sense of humor girlie-girl.” 

Kate’s ghost - only not really a ghost, soul thing? - stares at him, tears dried tacky on her cheeks. She’s standing near the head of the bed where they've laid her body out, looking down at herself with an impressive sense of calm about her that Clint fears is more detachment than anything. 

“Yes,” she says flatly without blinking, “One might even call it... morbid.” 

A bleat of half-hysterical, half-exhausted laughter escapes him before his mouth twists in a wry expression, and he’s... disappointedly proud – proudly disappointed? - with her for cracking the joke. 

He doesn’t even know anymore ok? 

“Too soon,” he tuts, shaking his head, and Kate scowls, the most expression she’s shown since she materialized beside him. 

“You can’t call too soon!” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m the one who’s dead!” 

“You’re not dead,” he argues, crossing his arms right back at her. “And I’m calling it for you. That was awful, just... awful!” 

Coulson clears his throat, raises an eyebrow when Clint turns to look at him, somehow manages to convey scolding and curiosity in the one little move. 

“She started it!” Clint whines, waving a hand in Kate’s direction even though he knows they can’t see her. 

“Did not!” she yelps. 

“Did too!” 

“Did not!” 

“Did...” 

“What is happening right now?” Banner asks quietly, looking back and forth between Clint and the empty air he’s arguing with. 

There’s a druggy sort of calm about him as he blinks at Clint sleepily, but it’s not enough to hide the sharp mind underneath. 

“Can you...” 

“Yes,” he answers quickly, because they really don’t need to be talking about him right now. “Ok, so here’s the thing...” 

Frowning, he turns to Kate, looks at her sternly. 

“You pay attention,” he warns. “Try to remember.” 

“It told you I don’t...” 

“I know,” he interrupts, more softly this time, because she is just a kid. “I know Katie. But just try your best ok?” 

She sniffles, swipes at her cheeks, but nods in agreement. 

“Ok.” 

Taking a deep breath, Clint turns back to the group, waves a hand at her body. 

“So. Demon. First things first – they're not corporeal. They need a body, preferably a living body. Don’t know where they come from or how they get here, but once they are, they need a suit to walk around in. They kick the... soul, the spirit out, whatever makes a person _them,_ and the body goes into a sort of stasis until the demon climbs inside.” 

Clint pauses, looks around to see how they’re taking this, and isn’t surprised that Stark looks irritably dubious, Coulson and Banner look intent, and Kate looks absolutely grossed out. 

“Ok, working hypothesis,” Banner allows, tilting his head as he starts to walk a circle around the bed, weaving in and out between them. “A demon has... displaced Miss Bishop’s personality from her physical body. It’s points in our favor that we know where both currently are?” 

Knowing the question is directed at him, Clint nods and gestures to Kate, who is making gagging faces beside him. Banner accepts the implication and continues his pacing, his face growing darker with each step. 

“So why hasn’t this demon taken up residence?” 

“Oh, ew!” Kate moans. “Can’t we just be glad that it hasn't? I mean, this is way too Buffalo Bill, ok? I don’t want some demon wearing me around like a designer jacket!” 

“Sorry kiddo,” Clint apologizes, his heart heavy. “This... isn’t exactly a good thing.” 

“You mean it gets worse?!” 

“Yeah. A lot worse.” 

There’s a lot of noise for a few minutes after that, sounds of dismay and frustration and weary acceptance. Clint flicks an apologetic look at Coulson, who just sighs and nods before moving back to sit in the visitor’s chair. He’s clearly exhausted, his complexion and his aura washed out and nauseated, and Clint wants to hold him, wants to take his hands and press them to his own chest to lend him the strength to get through this. It was to be draining on him - mentally, emotionally, magically – and he wants nothing more than to take the guy home and wrap him up tight, spend the night holding him and feeding him soup. 

He intends to offer – that and more – but first he has to get them through this. 

“I told you we’ve seen this before,” he says, calling them all back to attention. “And you know we’re both military. Black Ops was deployed to prevent the start of a multi-national war in the Western Pacific.” 

“Guam’s a part of the Micronesian Islands, but it’s still a US Territory,” Bucky rumbles, picking up the thread. “They wanted to get involved, provide a layover between Japan and Australia for the Japanese Air Force. We were sent to stop that movement, to prevent another Pearl Harbor.” 

Rogers goes pale, looks like he’s going to be sick again, but swallows hard and straightens his shoulders. 

“While we were there,” Clint continues slowly, “We saw this, a lot. Demons, they thrive on war, feed off of it, encourage it. They take over human bodies so that they can join in the game, participate enough to force the start of it all, then sit back and watch the carnage.” 

“They’re harbingers,” Bucky hisses, his eyes bright gold under the florescent lights of the clinic. “Warmongers.” 

“What does that mean?” Coulson asks carefully, and god, Clint is so, so sorry. 

“It means you’ve got a war coming.”


	26. Chapter 26

“AIM. It has to be.” 

Clint sighs, watches Coulson pace back and forth in front of Fury’s desk, the mid-afternoon sun hidden behind the storm clouds rolling in. They had adjourned to City Hall after Clint’s little warning, his words accompanied by a ridiculously cliched crack of thunder, and though it had yet to start to rain, it was only a matter of time. Stark had left them, breaking off without a word of direct communication, muttering to himself about war machines and writing on his phone with a stylus, but Rogers had stuck around, and now he, Bucky, Coulson, the Mayor, and Clint himself are all cramped up in the little office that had seemed bigger the last time he was in it. 

Fury himself is a rumbling thunderhead, his anger a low, cold-burning fire that turns his snapping, acid-green aura into something dark and sickly, the color of toads in a gas swamp. If Clint hadn’t already been nauseas he would be now, watching the slow, gummy, boil of it, sticky bubbles rolling over before popping with a nasty burble. They’d ordered in a very late lunch, sandwiches piled high with chicken and pesto, but he has to force himself to stuff down half of it. After a morning spent rock-climbing he knows he needs the protein, but he’s not the only one with a lack of appetite. 

Coulson doesn’t eat at all. 

“You think they’ve got someone on the inside?” Fury asks, and Coulson nods, sharp, like he’s fighting a migraine. 

“Yes. If they’re right,” and here he gestures to Clint and Bucky, “If they’re right then this demon is pushing for a war. You need two sides for that, and with Kate being the first victim, I think it’s fair to assume they’re not pushing for ours to win.” 

“How much patience do these things have?” Fury rumbles, turning his single eye on Clint. 

“If you’re asking me how much time you have to prepare...” 

“I’m not,” he growls, shoving away from his desk and leaning back in his chair. “I’m asking how long this motherfucker’s been in my town without my knowing about it.” 

Clint raises and eyebrow, looks at Coulson. 

“You two are the newest we’ve got,” he says, gesturing between them. “You a week or two ago, Barnes two years. Before that...” 

“I’m not saying either way, but it’s possible,” he allows. “But if that’s the case...” 

He glances at Bucky, who taps his fingers against his steel arm where he holds it like a pet cat in his lap - _position confirmed._

Shit, he agrees with him. 

“If that’s the case then I think there’s a reason we found Kate under that tree, instead of up and walking around.” 

“Care to share with the class?” Fury snarls when Clint pauses, more to collect his thoughts than for the dramatic effect, thanks very much. 

“It’s already got another host.” 

_“Shit.”_

“It makes sense,” Clint argues, when Coulson and Fury both curse. “If it came in wearing a human face it would be a lot easier for it to get through the SHIELD, learn the town, assess its weaknesses. That’s why you wouldn’t have known it was here, wouldn’t have really sensed it. The thing blends right in, does what looks normal, and goes about its own business when no one’s looking.” 

“So how does AIM fit in?” 

“That makes the most sense too,” Bucky answers when Rogers voices what several of them must be wondering. “What easier way to start a war than to offer one to someone else who’s already looking?” 

“Possess a member of AIM,” Clint says, connecting the dots. “There’s no way they aren’t already looking to take this place down, right?” 

“We’ve been careful to keep it off the radar,” Coulson says, dragging a hand wearily over his face. “It’s fairly well hidden from the larger world. There’s a general knowledge that towns like Downer’s Hollow exist, but any specifics...” 

“So that’s kind of perfect. Take a member of AIM, possess them, come to the Hollow seeking asylum or whatever...” Clint elaborates, strategical mind whirling. “You could easily learn everything you needed to know, and then go back to AIM like nothing’s wrong and hand all that information over.” 

“So that the regular, unpossessed members can then lead the charge,” Rogers concludes. 

“Why the girl then?” Fury asks, and Clint frowns. “Why Kate? Hell, can she hear all...” 

“She’s at the clinic,” Coulson says quietly, “With her body. Daisy is staying with her – I spoke with Skye before we headed over and she says she can... sense her when she’s in her shifted form. They were friends; she didn’t want her to be alone.” 

“Damn,” Fury mutters, and Clint likes to think it’s out of sympathy for the young girls than their lack of input to Fury’s little round-table. 

Tentatively, he raises his hand, but Fury glares at him like he really _would_ turn Clint into a frog, so he quickly puts it back down. 

“This is only a theory,” he advises, “But I don’t think these things are loners. Wars are big, cause a lot of casualties – plenty of blood, sweat, and tears to go around. It’s possible that this thing was... preparing, collecting bodies for more demons to come join in the fun.” 

“Has anyone else gone missing?” Rogers asks immediately, and yes, Clint can see how he would have made a good soldier, a good captain. 

“Not that we know of,” Fury replies, “But hell, we have hundreds of citizens up here, more than half of them remote. There’s no way to know...” 

Coulson huffs a tired, half-hysterical laugh. 

“There’s no way to know anything,” he says, and to his credit, his voice doesn’t break. “We don’t know if this thing has already reported back to AIM, which means they could already be on their way. We don’t know if it’s collected any more bodies, which means we don’t know if we have more disembodied friends floating around or demons gathering in the woods to watch us burn...” 

“You need to tell them,” Clint says, and it’s not his place but he sees better at a distance, and he thinks they may need some perspective on this. “All of them. If you have a war on your doorstep they deserve to know, and you need to start building a defense.” 

Fury stares at him unblinking, then looks to Coulson, who’s got his arms wrapped around his chest like he’s afraid of falling apart, a thousand-yard-stare on his face. 

“Rogers,” the Warlock rumbles, and Steve bounds to his feet like he’s got all the energy in the world, like he hasn’t just been through the shittiest day ever and donated a couple of pints in the bargain. “You actually have any experience to back up those Captain’s bars.” 

“Yes Sir,” he nods, falling into a natural parade rest. 

“Good. We’re going need it. Tomorrow we’ll hold another Town Hall, tell them what we know. I don’t want to announce a damned draft, but I will if I have to.” 

Steve nods, they all nod, then Fury gets to his feet, a clear dismissal. 

“Get some sleep gentleman,” he growls. “I’ll have work enough for all of you in the morning.” 

Bucky is the first one out the door, and Coulson moves to talk quietly to Fury, so Clint waits until Steve leaves the office to fall into step behind him. Deciding it’s probably best to stack the deck where he can, he grabs the guy’s elbow and tugs him off to the side down the hall, unbearably relieved when he follows quietly and waits for him to speak with an open, patient expression. 

“He’s an idiot,” Clint says, and ok, true, but maybe not the best start. “Bucky, I mean. He’s a moron about... well, a lot of things, but the point is, if you don’t make some kinda move, he’s not going to. He likes you, but he hates what people think he is, and with Stark...” 

“I’m sorry about that,” Steve says, dropping his eyes for a minute. “But I don’t... think that way. At least, not anymore. It isn’t fair, and I... I mean, I... like him. He’s...” 

“He’s scared,” Clint finishes for him. “He wants something he thinks he can’t have, and that’s always scared him. But he’s a good guy, and trust me, what’s underneath? So much better than you think it will be dude.” 

“You...” 

“We’re friends,” he says quickly, because Steve has flushed bright red and is still managing to frown with narrowed eyes. “We’re not in love. I meant what’s underneath all the brooding and the self-doubt and the bitching, but yeah, what’s under the leather too. Just...” 

Growling to himself, Clint scrubs his hands through his hair. 

“He shouldn’t be alone tonight,” he says, looking at Steve hard. “Everything that happened, it’s got him messed up. Physically and emotionally. His arm isn’t working right, and his head’s probably not much better, and he probably thinks you hate him for feeding off of you...” 

“I don’t!” Steve yelps, eyes going wide. 

“Then do me a favor and tell him that?” Clint begs, just as Coulson steps out into the hallway and pulls the office door shut behind him. “Just, keep an eye on him. Take him home – talk to him, fuck him, feed him again, I don’t care – but don’t let him be alone. I... got something else I gotta take care of.” 

Steve follows the direction of his gaze, lights on Coulson who’s standing in a daze at the top of the stairs like he isn’t sure how they work. Swallowing, he licks his lips, then nods his head nervously, too fast and too many times. 

“I can do that,” he says, and his voice is sure, even if he doesn’t look it. 

Clint heaves a huge sigh, stupid, stupid weight off his shoulders, and claps Steve on the arm. 

_"Thank you,”_ he says insistently, and Steve offers him an awkward grin. “Now go get your vamp. Ask him to show you at thing he does with his tongue.” 

Steve goes pop-eyed and bright red, but Clint just chuckles and leaves him to it, turns and jogs back up the hall to Coulson. Phil though, Phil now, he realizes as he draws in close, all signs of the Sheriff gone. He’s some managed to convey both the color and the texture of cold oatmeal, and stands wobbly on his feet, his mouth turned down at the corners in an expression that’s positively heartbreaking. Clint touches his wrist and he immediately clamps his fingers around it hard enough to bruise, but the tendrils of his aura that usually grab on to Clint’s so strongly do nothing more than flutter against his skin. 

“Hey,” Clint murmurs, as Steve moves to slip past them on the stairs. “Let’s get you home huh?” 

Phil doesn’t speak, just nods dumbly, his gaze drifting somewhere around Clint’s knees. Smiling sadly at him, Clint turns their hands and laces their fingers together, tugs him gently to get him moving. He sticks close to Clint’s side and they go down the stairs and out the front door onto the street, and if he didn’t know better he’d think the druid was leeching his body heat, but he really couldn’t care either way. 

Steve’s talking to Bucky. The vampire’s got his arms crossed over his chest and is backed up hard against the Bronco, his head turned away so he can glare at the bakery across the road, and Steve looks like he’s already at his wits end. Clint gets that – Bucky's his friend after all – but he’d hoped the supersoldier would have a little more stamina than that. 

He was going to need it. 

Alerted to their presence by the sound of the door closing, Steve looks over at them and his face immediately goes sly, bouncing between Clint, Coulson, and the two vehicles in the lot. Digging into his pocket, he pulls out his keys and tosses them in Clint’s direction, waiting until they’re caught before he speaks. 

“Can you take the Sheriff home?” he calls, jerking his chin at Phil who doesn’t respond. “You can take my truck – it looks like he needs some rest.” 

“You got it,” Clint replies, a grin spreading across his face. “Bucky gonna give you a ride back?” 

“Yes,” he says, and from the look on Bucky’s face that certainly hadn’t been negotiated ahead of time, but as Clint turns away to steer Coulson toward Rogers’ pick-up, he hears the man make the decision for them both. 

“Take me home.” 

It’s a quiet demand, confident, the kind of thing Bucky will respond to well. Good for Steve – the guy’s smarter than he looks. By the time he gets Phil buckled into the front seat and rounds the truck to get behind wheel, the Bronco is already backing out, Steve riding shotgun. Bucky sneers at him through the window and flips him off as they roll past, which doesn’t seem very nice because Clint is obviously an excellent wingman. If Steve plays his cards right they should both have a pleasant evening. 

Speaking of... 

The ride back to Phil’s place is silent but for the sound of the engine and the dull rumble of thunder overhead. He doesn’t talk and Clint doesn’t try to make him, even if he’s practically a nervous wreck by the time they pull up to the little house up in the trees. The rain breaks loose just as he kills the engine, but Phil doesn’t even seem to notice as he presses his hand to the front door and lets them in, stepping inside only to collapse in the small armchair in the entryway. 

Clint immediately goes to his knees in front of him, does what he wanted to do in the first place and presses Phil’s hand to his chest. If it ends up looking more like he’s clutching it over his heart, well, Phil’s too out of it to notice, let alone remember. 

“I‘m ok,” he mumbles, eyes unfocused as Miss Cleo appears out of nowhere, starts winding herself around and around Phil’s ankles. 

Clint can sense the house shifting around then, opening up to allow them room inside then closing back in to welcome them home, and it’s as if the very walls themselves can feel the lie. The myriad of plants that line the edges of the hallway floors and sit high on shelves above their heads rustle angrily, and Clint actually glances around the darkened entryway anxiously, fearful that they’ll decide _he’s_ the source of this unacceptable state of affairs. 

“You’re not,” he argues softly, putting his free hand down to pet Cleo’s head, try to soothe the nervous feline. 

“Just need some sleep,” Phil mumbles, and yeah, he’s kinda nodding off right there in the chair, but... 

“You need a lot more than sleep,” Clint scolds gently. “And we both know it.” 

It feels strangely humbling to remove his hiking boots. Perhaps it’s the fact that Clint’s on his knees in front of him, or maybe that Phil looks utterly and entirely vulnerable with his feet bare, his socks pulled off in the bargain. Clint doesn’t want to think about it too much, so instead he helps Phil to stand, steadying him with his hands on his shoulders until he’s sure he won’t topple over. 

“This ok?” he murmurs as he slowly starts to work on the buttons of Phil’s lightweight, khaki work-shirt, the first one at the hollow of his throat. 

He can barely hear himself over the sound of the storm outside, the rain on the tile roof, but Phil just nods, his hands coming up to rest on Clint’s hips. 

Not expecting anything more vigorous from him, Clint undoes the buttons all the way to the bottom, pulling the tails of his shirt from his pants before slipping it off entirely. Phil’s chest is gorgeous, broad and strong and covered with a nice amount of salt-and-pepper hair, and Clint wants desperately to touch, but this isn’t about that, this quiet moment standing close together. 

“Still ok?” he whispers, his hands dropping to the buckle of Phil’s belt, and this time he gets a small, wounded sound along with the nod. 

Clint pulls his belt from the loops, unbuttons the fly of his jeans and takes the whole lot down to his ankles, Phil’s hands hot on his shoulders as he steadies himself to step out of the tangle. For all of a second Clint had considered leaving the boxers, but if he’s going to do this he might as well do it right. 

Besides, he can always leave his own on. 

Clint strips out of his clothes with the clinical efficiency of a soldier and none of the tender care he’d shown to Phil. This earns him another whimper, and he’s endlessly glad he’d kept his purple briefs right where they were. Phil is staring at him with an intensity and a hunger that takes his breath away, and there‘s no way he can keep himself from reacting when the man’s hands come up and glue themselves to his sides, stroking aimlessly over his chest and down his belly to his waistband. 

“Come with me,” he says quietly, grabbing one of Phil’s wandering hands and tugging it back up to his heart, pressing his knuckles to his chest so hard it hurts. “Phil. Do you trust me?” 

Phil meets his eyes, his own pupils blown black and wide, and his aura sparks for the first time in hours, a flash of hope that’s there and gone like lightning. 

“Yes.” 

Unable to breathe, able to stop himself, Clint leans in and presses a kiss to his lips, long and slow and soft. It’s not the first kiss he’d imagined it would be, not hot and desperate and fun as they toppled into bed together, but in this moment of dull, aching pain and exhaustion, it’s so much more than that. Breaking away, he stares into Phil’s eyes for a long, long time, nearly gets lost in them until the druid wavers, leans heavily on him as his legs threaten to give out. 

Reminded of his original purpose, Clint throws optimism out the window and just scoops Phil right up, bridal style which he’ll probably catch hell for. Only maybe not, because as he carries them through the house to the other side and out the patio doors back into the rain, Phil wraps his arms around Clint’s shoulders and holds on, pressing his forehead into the hollow of his throat. 

There‘s a zen garden halfway up the hill behind the barn. Clint had noticed it the last time he was here, and knows that druids often meditate outside, skyclad. It’s a slippery climb, the grass slick as the warm spring rain comes cascading down, but they make it up in one piece and Phil practically whimpers when Clint sets him down in the dark, churned earth inside the little circle of white stones. He sits down smack in the center of it, and Clint isn’t sure if it was by design or if his knees had finally given out, but he’s already got his fingers and toes buries in the dirt and his face tipped back to the sky. 

He should leave him, Clint knows that. This is an intensely private thing, and he should go. No matter what his original plans were, what he had thought would happen out here in the middle of the storm, looking at Phil now he knows he ought to leave. The druid’s chest is heaving, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, and only Phil and his gods know if it’s tears or rain or both running down his cheeks, but as he opens his mouth to let out an angry, broken, frightened shout, the circle lights up like a beacon, beautiful and white and strong. 

Clint throws up an arm to block his eyes, squints past the glare to see Phil’s aura crashing around him, a sea raging beneath the stormy sky. Grey and black and silver and white, it surges and breaks around him like waves, violent and wild and alive, but it’s very nearly out of control and Clint can see it trying to drown him. 

Falling to his knees, he wraps his arms around Phil from behind and holds on as tight as he can, thighs bracketing the druid’s bare hips. His arms ache with the strength of his grip, and he hides his face in the curve of Phil’s neck as a bolt lightning streaks across the sky. It hits a tree only a hundred yards away with a fierce crack, and the thing screams as it snaps like kindling, tilting slowly on its broken base until it comes crashing to the ground, mere inches from the stones around them. 

Clint feels no fear. 

The storm whips and whines through the woods around them, but inside the circle, quiet has fallen. The rain continues to patter down on them but the driving sting of it has gone, and a hush seems to have fallen even as Phil sobs, sucking in great, desperate gulps of air. He’s panting, his body flushed, and he scrabbles wildly at Clint’s arms, fingernails raking furrows across his skin so deep he draws blood, but it’s ok. 

Clint’s heart thumps painfully in his chest, but it’s ok. 

Phil flings his head back over Clint’s shoulder, stares up at the sky with blind, black eyes, and Clint ties him tightly with the strong, purple cords of his aura, the love he’s already started to grow for the incredible man in his arms. They wrap around him and disappear into his skin, rainwater gleaming with violet reflections where it runs in rivulets over their bodies, and Phil bucks his hips madly, hard and hot. 

“Clint,” he begs in a voice that’s hoarse and broken, “Clint please!” 

“Anything,” Clint breathes in his ear, pressing impossibly closer as he takes Phil’s cock in his hand. “Anything.” 

“Don’t let go!” 

“I won’t,” he promises, and he doesn’t, not until Phil comes with a shout that is drowned by a concussive burst of thunder and they both pass out cold in each other’s arms.


End file.
